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diff --git a/old/53610-0.txt b/old/53610-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8303cfc..0000000 --- a/old/53610-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7618 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's A Sister to Evangeline, by Charles G. D. Roberts - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: A Sister to Evangeline - Being the Story of Yvonne de Lamourie, and how she went - into exile with the villagers of Grand Pré - -Author: Charles G. D. Roberts - -Release Date: November 26, 2016 [EBook #53610] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SISTER TO EVANGELINE *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing, Larry B. Harrison and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net -(This file was produced from images generously made -available by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - A Sister to Evangeline - - -[Illustration] - - - - - A Sister to Evangeline - -_Being the Story of Yvonne de Lamourie, and how she went into exile with - the villagers of Grand Pré_ - - - By - Charles G. D. Roberts - - Author of _The Forge in the Forest_, _A History of Canada_, _Earth’s - Enigmas_, _New York Nocturnes_, &c. - -[Illustration] - - Lamson, Wolffe and Company - Boston, New York, London - MDCCCXCVIII - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - Copyright, 1898 - By Lamson, Wolffe and Company - - _All rights reserved_ - - - PRESS OF - Rockwell and Churchill - BOSTON - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - _To_ - MY MOTHER - EMMA WETMORE BLISS ROBERTS - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - Contents - - - Chapter Page - - I. Paul Grande’s Home-coming to Grand Pré 1 - - II. Grûl’s Warning 11 - - III. Charms and Counter-charms 15 - - IV. “Habet!” 23 - - V. The Black Abbé Defers 31 - - VI. A New England Englishman 36 - - VII. Guard! 43 - - VIII. The Moon in the Apple-bough 50 - - IX. In Sleep a King; but Waking, no such Matter 58 - - X. A Grand Pré Morning 66 - - XI. Father Fafard 77 - - XII. Le Fûret at the Ferry 87 - - XIII. Unwilling to be Wise 94 - - XIV. Love Me, Love My Dog 100 - - XV. Ashes as it were Bread 105 - - XVI. The Way of a Maid 112 - - XVII. Memory is a Child 117 - - XVIII. For a Little Summer’s Sleep 125 - - XIX. The Borderland of Life 135 - - XX. But Mad Nor-nor-west 142 - - XXI. Beauséjour, and After 149 - - XXII. Grûl’s Case 156 - - XXIII. At Gaspereau Lower Ford 161 - - XXIV. “If you love me, leave me” 168 - - XXV. Over Gaspereau Ridge 177 - - XXVI. The Chapel Prison 182 - - XXVII. Dead Days and Withered Dreams 191 - - XXVIII. The Ships of her Exile 200 - - XXIX. The Hour of her Desolation 208 - - XXX. A Woman’s Privilege 218 - - XXXI. Young Will and Old Wisdom 229 - - XXXII. Aboard the “Good Hope” 238 - - XXXIII. The Divine Right of Queens 246 - - XXXIV. The Soul’s Supremer Sense 254 - - XXXV. The Court in the Cabin 260 - - XXXVI. Sword and Silk 268 - - XXXVII. Fire in Ice 279 - - XXXVIII. Of Long Felicity Brief Word 285 - - - - - A Sister to Evangeline - - - - - Chapter I - - Paul Grande’s Home-coming to Grand Pré - - -“R_evenant à la Belle Acadie_”—the words sang themselves over and over -in my brain, but I could get no further than that one line, try as I -might. I felt that it was the beginning of a song which, if only I could -imprison it in my rhyme, would stick in the hearts of our men of Acadie, -and live upon their lips, and be sung at every camp and hearth fire, as -“_À la Claire Fontaine_” is sung by the _voyageurs_ of the St. Lawrence. -At last I perceived, however, that the poem was living itself out at -that moment in my heart, and did not then need the half-futile -expression that words at best can give. But I did put it into words at a -later day, when at last I found myself able to set it apart and view it -with clear eyes; and you shall judge, maybe, when I come to put my -verses into print, whether I succeeded in making the words rhyme fairly -and the volatile syllables march at measured pace. The art of verse has -never been much practised among us Acadians, and it is a matter of some -pride to me that I, a busy soldier, now here at Grand Pré and anon at -Mackinaw or Natchez, taking in my hand my life more often than a pen, -should have mastered even the rudiments of an art so lofty and exacting. - -So, for awhile, “Home again to Acadie the Fair” was all that I could -say. - -It was surely enough. I had come over from Piziquid afoot, by the upper -trail, and now, having crossed the Gaspereau where it narrows just above -tide-water, I had come out upon the spacious brow of the hill that -overlooks Grand Pré village. - -Not all my wanderings had shown me another scene so wonderful as that -wide prospect. The vale of the Five Rivers lay spread out before me, -with Grand Pré, the quiet metropolis of the Acadian people, nestling in -her apple-bloom at my feet. There was the one long street, thick-set -with its wide-eaved gables, and there its narrow subsidiary lane -descending from the slopes upon my left. Near the angle rose the spire -of the village church, glittering like gold in the clear flood of the -sunset. And everywhere the dear apple-blossoms. For it was spring in -Acadie when I came home. - -Beyond the village and its one black wharf my eyes ranged the green, -wind-ruffled marshes, safe behind the sodded circumvallations of their -dykes. Past the dykes, on either side of “the island’s” wooded rampart, -stretched the glowing miles of the flats; for the tides of Minas were at -ebb. How red in the sunset, molten copper threaded with fire, those -naked reaches gleamed that night! Their color was like a blare of -trumpets challenging the peace of the Five Rivers. - -Past the flats, smooth and dazzling to the eye at such a distance, lay -the waters of Minas. Well I knew how their unsleeping eddies boiled and -seethed about the grim base of Blomidon. Such tricks does memory serve -one that even across that wide tranquillity I seemed to hear the -depredating clamour of those tides upon the shingle. - -Though it was now two years since I had seen the gables and apple-trees -of Grand Pré, I was in no haste to descend into the village. There came -a sudden sinking at my heart, as my heart inquired, with unseasonable -pertinence, by what right I continued to call Grand Pré “home”? The -thought was new to me; and that I might fairly consider it I seated -myself upon the broad stump of a birch-tree, felled the preceding -winter. - -By far the smaller portion of my life had been spent in the Acadian -village—only my early boyhood, before the years of schooling at Quebec; -and afterwards the fleeting sweetness of some too brief visits, that lay -in my memory like pools of enchanted leisure in a desert of emulous -contentions. My father, tenderest and bravest of all men that I have -known, rested in an unmarked grave beside the northern wash of the -Peribonca. My uncle, Jean de Mer, Sieur de Briart, was on the Ohio, -fighting the endless battle of France in the western wildernesses. His -one son, my one cousin, the taciturn but true-hearted Marc, was with his -father, spending himself in the same quarrel. I thought with a longing -tenderness of these two—the father full of high faith in the triumph of -New France, the son fighting obstinately in what he held a lost cause, -caring mainly that his father still had faith in it. I wished mightily -that their brave hands could clasp mine in welcome back to Grand Pré. I -thought of their two fair New England wives, left behind at Quebec to -shame by their gay innocence the corruption of Bigot’s court. Kindred I -had none in Grand Pré, unless one green grave in the churchyard could be -called my kin—the grave wherein my mother’s girlish form and laughing -eyes had been laid to sleep while I was yet a child. - -Yes, I had no kinsfolk to greet me back to Grand Pré; no roof of mine -that I should call it home. But friends, loyal friends, would welcome -me, I knew. There was Father Fafard, the firm and gentle old priest, to -whom, of course, I should go just as if I were of his flesh and blood. -Then there were the De Lamouries— - -Yes, to be sure, the De Lamouries. And here I took myself by the chin -and laughed. I know that, for all my verses, I am in the main a soldier, -yet I am so far a poet as to suffer myself to befool myself at times, -and get a passing satisfaction out of it. But I always face the fact -before I express it in act. I acknowledged to myself that I had been -thinking of the De Lamouries’ pleasant farmhouse, and of somewhat that -it contained, when I sang “Home again to Acadie the Fair.” - -I remembered with a pleasant warmth the tall, bent figure, fierce eyes, -and courtly air of Giles de Lamourie, the broken gentleman, who through -much misfortune and some fault had fallen from a high place at -Versailles and been fain to hide himself on an Acadian farm. I thought -also of Madame, his wife, a wizened little woman with nothing left, said -the villagers, to remind one of the loveliness which had once dazzled -Louis himself. To me she seemed an amazingly interesting woman, whose -former beauty could still be guessed from its ruins. - -Both of these good people I remembered with a depth of concern far -beyond the deserts of such casual friendlinesses as they had shown me. -As I looked down toward their spacious apple-orchard, on the furthest -outskirts of the village, it was borne in upon me that they had one -claim to distinction beyond all others. - -They had achieved Yvonne. - -Many a time had I wondered how my cousin Marc could have had eyes for -his ruddy-haired Puritan lily when there was Yvonne de Lamourie in the -world. On my last two visits to Grand Pré I had seen her; not many -times, indeed, nor much alone; and never word of love had passed between -us. In truth, I had not known that I loved her in those days. I had -taken a wondering delight in her beauty and her wit, but of the pretty -trifles of compliment and the careless gallantries that so often -simulate love I had offered her none at all. This surprised me the more -afterward, as women had ever found me somewhat lavish in such light -coin. I think I was withheld by the great love unrealized in my heart, -which found expression then only in such white reverence as the devotee -proffers to his saint. I think, too, I was restrained by the -consciousness of a certain girl at Trois Pistoles on the St. Lawrence, -who, if I might believe my vanity, loved me, and to whom, if I might -believe my conscience, I had given some sort of claim upon my honor. I -cared naught for the girl. I had never intended anything but a light and -passing affair; but somehow it had not seemed to me light when Yvonne de -Lamourie’s eyes were upon me. A little afterward, revisiting Trois -Pistoles on my way to the western lakes, I had found the maiden married -to a prosperous trader of Quebec. In the leaping joy that seized my -heart at the news I perceived how my fetters had galled; and I knew -then, though at first but dimly, that if anywhere in the world there -awaited me such a love as I had dreamed of sleeping, but ever doubted -waking,—the love that should be not a pastime, but a prayer, not an -episode, but an eternity,—it awaited me in Grand Pré village. - -In my heart these two years I had carried two clear visions of my -mistress. Strange to tell, they were not bedimmed by the much handling -which they had endured. They but seemed to grow the brighter and fresher -from being continually pressed to the kisses of my soul. - -In one of these I saw her as she stood a certain morning in the orchard, -prying with insistent little finger-tips into the heart of a young -apple-flower, while I watched and said nothing. I know not to this day -whether she were thinking of the apple-flower or wondering at the -dumbness of her cavalier; but she feigned, at least, to concern herself -with only the blossom’s heart. Her wide white lids downcast over her -great eyes, her long lashes almost sweeping the rondure of her cheek, -she looked a Madonna. The broad, low forehead; the finely chiselled -nose, not too small for strength of purpose; the full, firm chin—all -added to this sweet dignity, which was of a kind to compel a lover’s -worship. There was enough breadth to the gracious curve below the ear to -make me feel that this girl would be a strong man’s mate. But the mouth, -a bow of tenderness, with a wilful dimple at either delectable corner -always lurking, spoke her all woman, too laughing and loving to spend -her days in sainthood. Her hair—very thick and of a purply-bronze, near -to black—lay in a careless fulness over her little ears. On her head, -though in all else she affected the dress of the Grand Pré maids, she -wore not the Acadian linen cap, but a fine shawl of black Spanish lace, -which became her mightily. Her bodice was of linen homespun, coarse, but -bleached to a creamy whiteness; and her skirt, of the same simple stuff, -was short after the Acadian fashion, so that I could see her slim -ankles, and feet of that exceeding smallness and daintiness which may -somehow tread right heavily upon a man’s heart. - -The other vision cherished in my memory was different from this, and -even more enchanting. It was a vision of one look cast upon me as I left -the door of her father’s house. In the radiance of her great eyes, -turned full upon me, all else became indistinct, her other features -blurred, as it were, with the sudden light of that look, which meant—I -knew not what. Indeed, it was ever difficult to observe minutely the -other beauties of her face as long as the eyes were turned upon one, so -clear an illumination from her spirit shone within their lucid deeps. -Hence it was, I suppose, that few could agree as to the colour of those -eyes—the many calling them black, others declaring with confidence that -they were brown, while some even, who must have angered her, averred -them to be of a very cold dark grey. I, for my part, knew that they were -of a greenish hazel of indescribable depth, with sometimes amber lights -in them, and sometimes purple shadows very mysterious and unfathomable. - -As I sat now looking down into the village I wondered if Yvonne would -have a welcome for me. As I remembered, she had ever shown goodwill -toward me, so far as consisted with maidenly reserve. She had seemed -ever ready for tales of my adventure, and even for my verses. As I -thought of it there dawned now upon my heart a glimmering hope that -there had been in that last unforgotten look of hers more warmth of -meaning than maid Yvonne had been willing to confess. - -This thought went to my heart and I sprang up in a kind of sudden -intoxication, to go straightway down into the village. As I did so I -caught the flutter of a white frock among the trees of the De Lamourie -orchard. Thereupon my breath came with a quickness that was troublesome, -and to quiet it I paused, looking out across the marshes and the tide -toward Blomidon. Then for the first time I observed a great bank of -cloud that had arisen behind the Cape. It was black and menacing, ragged -and fiery along its advancing crest. Its shadow lay already upon the -marshes and the tide. It crept smoothly upon the village. And at this -moment, from the skirts of a maple grove on the summit of the hill -behind me, came a great and bell-like voice, crying: - -“Woe, woe to Acadie the Fair, for the hour of her desolation cometh!” - - - - - Chapter II - - Grûl’s Warning - - -“These ten years,” I exclaimed to myself angrily (for I love not to have -a dream rudely broken), “has Grûl been prophesying woe; and I see not -that aught comes of it save greater strength to his lungs.” - -I turned my back upon the valley and watched the singular figure that -drew near. It was a shrewd and mysterious madman whom all Acadie had -known for the past ten years as “Grûl.” Whether that was his real name -or a pseudonym of his own adoption no one knew. Whence he had come no -one knew. Wherefore he stayed in Acadie, and so faithfully prophesied -evil to our fair land, no one knew. The reason of his madness—and the -method which sometimes seemed to lurk beneath it—no one could -confidently guess. At least, such ignorance in regard to this fantastic -fool seemed general throughout the country. But there lay here and there -a suspicion that the Black Abbé, the indomitable La Garne, Bigot’s tool -and the people’s dread, knew more of Grûl’s madness than other folk -might dream. It was whispered that La Garne, who seemingly feared no man -else, feared Grûl. It was certain that whenever any scheme of the Black -Abbé’s came to naught Grûl’s hand would appear somewhere in the wreck of -it. - -Now, as he came down from the maple grove, he looked and was dressed -just as I had seen him years before. The vicissitudes of time and of the -weather seemed to have as little effect upon the staring black and -yellow of his woollen cloak as upon his iron frame, his piercing -light-blue eyes, the snowy tangle of his hair and beard. Only his -pointed cap betrayed that its wearer dwelt not altogether beyond the -pale of mutability. Its adornments seemed to recognize the seasons. I -had seen it stuck with cornflowers in the summer, with golden-rod and -asters in the autumn, with feathers and strange wisps of straw in -winter; and now it bore a spray of apple-blossom, with some dandelions, -those northern sun-worshippers, whose closing petals now declared that -even in death they took note of the passing of their lord. - -In his hand Grûl carried the same quaint wand of white wood, with its -grotesque carven head dyed scarlet, which had caught my eye with an -uneasy fascination the first time I met its possessor. That little -stick, which Grûl wielded with authority as if it were a sceptre, still -caused me some superstitious qualms. I remembered how at my first sight -of it I had looked to see a living spark leap from that scarlet head. - -“It has been a long time coming,” said I, as Grûl paused before me, -searching my face curiously with his gleaming eyes. “And meanwhile I -have come. I think, monsieur, I should esteem a welcome somewhat more -cordial than your words of dolorous omen.” - -Whether he were displeased or not at my forwardness in addressing him I -cannot tell. He was without doubt accustomed to choose his own time for -speech. His eyes danced with a shifting, sharp light, and after -thrusting his little wand at me till, in spite of myself, I felt the -easy smile upon my lips grow something mechanical, he said with -withering slowness: - -“To the boy and the fool how small a handful of years may seem a -lifetime! You think it is long coming? It is even now come. The shadow -of the smoke of her burning even now lies upon Acadie. The ships of her -exile are near.” - -He stopped; and I had no word of mocking wherewith to answer him. Then -his eyes and his voice softened a little, and he continued: - -“And _you_ have come back—poor boy, poor fool!—with joy in your heart; -and your joy even now is crumbling to ashes in your mouth.” - -He turned away, leaving me still speechless; but in an instant he was -back and his wand thrust at me with a suddenness that made me recoil in -childish apprehension. In a voice indescribably dry and biting he cried -swiftly: - -“But look you, boy. Whether she be yours or another’s, there is an evil -hand uplifted against her this night. See you to it!” - -“What do you mean?” I cried, my heart sinking with a sudden fear. “Nay, -you _shall_ tell me!” I went on fiercely, making as if to restrain him -by force as he turned away. But he bent upon me one look of such scorn -that I felt at once convicted of folly; and striding off, with something -of a dignity in his carriage which all his grotesquerie of garb could -not conceal, he left me to chew upon his words. As for the warning, that -was surely plain enough. I was to go to Yvonne, and be by her in case of -any need. The business thus laid upon me was altogether to my liking. -But that pitying word—of joy that should turn to ashes in my mouth! It -filled me with black foreboding. As I stepped down briskly toward Grand -Pré my joy was already dead, withered at a madman’s whisper. And that -great-growing cloud from over Blomidon had swallowed up all the village -in a chill shadow. - - - - - Chapter III - - Charms and Counter-charms - - -Never may I forget that walking down from the Gaspereau Ridge to Grand -Pré village. The very air seemed charged with mystery. Every sight and -every sound bore the significance of an omen, to which I lacked -interpreter. The roofs of the village itself, and the marshes, the sea, -and the far-off bulk of Blomidon, appeared like the tissue of a dream, -ready to vanish upon a turn of thought, and leave behind I knew not what -of terrible reality. - -I am not by nature superstitious at all beyond the point of convenience. -Such superstitions as please me I have ever been wont to cherish for the -interest to be had out of them. I have often been strengthened in a -doubtful intention by omens that looked my way, and auspicious signs -have many a time cheered me astonishingly when affairs have seemed to be -going ill. But the most menacing of omens have ever had small weight -when opposing themselves to my set purpose. When a superstition is on my -side I show it much civility: when it is against me it seems of small -account. - -But that night I was more superstitious than usual. Of the new moon, a -pallid bow just sinking, I caught first sight over my left shoulder, and -I felt vaguely troubled thereat. One crow, croaking from a willow stump -upon my right hand, got up heavily and flew across my path. I misliked -the omen, and felt straightway well assured of some approaching rebuff. -When, a few moments later, _two_ crows upon my left hand flew over to my -right I was not greatly comforted, for they were far ahead and I was -forced to conclude that the felicity which they prophesied was remote. - -Thus it came that presently I was in a waking and walking dream, not -knowing well the substance from the shadow. Yet my senses did so -continue to serve me that I went not down into the village, where I knew -I should find many a handclasp, but followed discreetly along the back -of the orchards, that I might reach the De Lamourie place as swiftly as -possible. - -By this hour a sweet-smelling mist, such as, I think, falls nowhere else -as it does in the Acadian fields, lay heavy on the grasses. I bethought -me that it was the dew of the new moon, and therefore endowed with many -virtues; and I persuaded myself to believe that my feet, which were by -now well drenched with it, must needs be set upon a fortunate errand. - -As I came to this comforting conclusion I reached a little thicket at an -orchard corner, where grew a deep tangle of early flowering herbs. -There, gathering the wet and perfumed blooms, stooped an old woman with -a red shawl wrapped over her head and shoulders. She straightened -herself briskly as I came beside her, and I saw the haggard, high-boned, -hawk-nosed face of old Mother Pêche, whose tales of wizardry I had often -listened to in the years long gone by. She turned upon me her strange -eyes, black points of piercing intelligence encircled by a startling -glitter of wide white, and at once she stretched out to me a crooked -hand of greeting. - -“It is good for these old eyes, Master Paul, to see thee back in the -village!” she exclaimed. - -Now, any one will tell you that it is not well to be crossed in one’s -path by an old woman, when on an errand of moment. I hurried past, -therefore; and it shames me to say it. But then, remembering that one -had better defy any omen than leave a kindness undone, I stopped, turned -back, and hastily grasped the old dame’s wizened hand, slipping into it -a silver piece as I did so. - -It was a broad piece, and full as much as I could wisely spare; but an -old woman or a small boy is ever welcome to share my last penny. Her -strange eyes gleamed for a moment, but as she looked up to bless me her -face changed. After gazing earnestly into my eyes she muttered something -which I could not catch, and to my huge amazement flung the silver -behind her with a violence which left no doubt of her intentions. She -flung it toward a little swampy pool; but as luck would have it the coin -struck a willow sapling by the pool’s edge, bounded back, and fell with -a clink upon a flat stone, where I marked it as it lay whitely -glittering. - -I was too amazed to protest for a moment, but the old woman hastened to -appease me. - -“There was sorrow on it, dearie,—thy sorrow,” she exclaimed coaxingly; -“and I wouldn’t have it. The devil take all thy bad luck, and Mary give -thee new fortune!” - -To me it seemed that throwing away the silver piece was taking -superstition quite too seriously. I laughed and said: - -“But, mother, if there be bad luck ahead of me, so much the more do I -want your blessing, and truly I cannot spare you another silver crown. -Faith, this one’s not gone yet, after all!” And picking it up I handed -it back to her. “Let the devil fly away with my ill luck, if he may, but -don’t let him fly away with your little savings,” I added. - -The old dame shook her head doubtfully, and then with a sigh of -resignation, as who should say, “The gifts of destiny are not to be -thrust aside,” slipped the silver into some deep-hidden pocket. But her -loving concern for my prosperity was not to be balked. After a little -fumbling she brought out a small pebble, which she gave me with an air -that showed it to be, in her eyes, some very great thing. - -I took it with an answering concern, looked at it very closely, and -turned it over in my hand, waiting for some clue to its significance -before I should begin to thank her for the gift, if gift it were. The -stone was assuredly beautiful, about the size of a hazel-nut, and of a -clouded, watery green in color, but the curious quality of it was that -as you held it up a moving loop of light seemed to gather at its heart, -taking somewhat the semblance of a palely luminous eye. My interest -deepened at once, and I bethought me of a stone of rarity and price -which was sometimes to be found under Blomidon. It went by the name of -“Le Veilleur,” or “The Watcher,” among our Acadian peasants; but the -Indians called it “The Eye of Manitou,” and many mystic virtues were -ascribed to it. - -“Why, mother,” I said presently, “this is a thing of great price! I -cannot take it. ‘Tis a ‘Watcher,’ is it not?” And I gazed intently into -its elusive loop of light. - -“I have another,” she answered eagerly, thrusting her hands under her -red cloak as if to prevent me giving back the stone. “That is for thee, -and thou’lt need it, _chéri_ Master Paul.” - -“Well,” said I, staring at the beautiful jewel with a growing affection, -“I will take it with much thanks, mother, but I must pay you what it is -worth; and that I will find out in Quebec, from one who knows the worth -of jewels.” - -“Thou shalt _not_ pay me, Master Paul,” said the old dame, with a -distinct note of resentment in her voice. “It is my gift to thee, -because I have loved thee since thou wert a little lad; and because -thou’lt need the stone. Promise me thou’lt wear it always about thee;” -and plucking it from my hand with a swift insinuation of her long -fingers she slipped it into a tiny pouch of dressed deerskin and -proceeded to affix a leathern thong whereby I might, as I inferred, hang -the talisman about my neck. - -“While this you wear,” she went on in a low, singing voice, “what most -you fear will never come to pass.” - -“But I am not greatly given to fear, mother,” said I, with a little -vainglorious laugh. - -“Then thou hast not known love,” she retorted sharply. - -At these words the fear of which she had spoken came about me—vague, -formless, terrible, and I trembled. - -“Give it to me!” I cried in haste. “Give it to me! I will repay you, -mother, with”—and here I laughed again—“with love, which you say I have -never known.” - -“_That_ kind of love, Master Paul, thou hast known since thou wert a -very little lad. Thou’st given it freely, out of a kind heart. But, -dearie, thou hast but played at the great love—or more would’st thou -know of fear.” And the old woman looked at me with shrewd question in -her startling eyes. - -But I did know fear—and I knew that I knew love. My face turned -anxiously toward De Lamourie’s, and I grudged every instant of further -delay. - -“Good-by, mother, and the saints keep you!” I cried hastily, swinging -off through the wet grass. But the old dame called after me gently: - -“Stop a minute, Master Paul. She will be at her supper by now; an’ in a -little she’ll be walking in the garden path.” - -I stopped, filled with wonder, and my veins leaping in wild confusion at -the sound of that little word “she.” It was as if the old woman had -shouted “Yvonne” at the top of her voice. - -“What is it?” I stammered. - -“I want to look at thy hand, dearie,” she said, grasping it and turning -it so as to catch the last of the fading light. - -“Your heart’s desire is nigh your death of hope,” said she presently, -speaking like an oracle. Then she dropped my hand with a little dry -chuckle, and turned away to her gathering of herbs as if I were of no -further account. - -“What do you mean?” I asked eagerly. - -But she would not answer me. I scorned to appear too deeply concerned in -such old woman’s foolery; so I asked no more, but went my way, carrying -the word in my heart with a strange comfort—which, had I but known it, -was right soon to turn into despair. - - - - - Chapter IV - - “Habet!” - - -I came upon the De Lamourie farmhouse by the rear of the orchard; and -down through the low, blossoming arches, now humming with night moths -and honey beetles, I hastened toward the front door. Before I reached it -there arose an angry barking from the yard, and a huge black dog, -objecting to the manner of my approach, came charging upon me with -appearance of malign intent. - -I was vexed at the notion of a possible encounter, for I would not use -my sword or my pistols on the guardian of my friend’s domain; yet I had -small desire that the brute should tear my clothes. I cursed my folly in -not carrying a stick wherewith to beat off such commonplace assailants. -But there was nothing for it save indifference, so I paid no attention -to the dog until he was almost upon me. Then I turned my head and said -sharply, “Down, sir, down!” - -To all domestic animals the voice of authority is the voice of right. I -had forgotten that for the moment. The dog stopped, and stood growling -doubtfully. He could not muster up resolution to attack one who spoke -with such an assurance of privilege. Yet what could justify my highly -irregular approach? He would await developments. In a casual, friendly -manner, as I walked on, I stretched out the back of my hand to him, as -if to signify that he might lick it if he would; but this he was by no -means ready for, so he kept his distance obstinately. - -In another moment there appeared at the head of the path a white, slight -figure, with something black about the head and shoulders. It was -Yvonne, come out to see the cause of the loud disturbance. - -“It is I, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed in an eager voice, hastening to -meet her,—“Paul Grande, back from the West.” - -A slight gasping cry escaped her, and she paused irresolutely. It was -but for the least part of an instant; yet my memory took note of it -afterward, though it passed me unobserved at the time. Then she came to -meet me with outstretched hands of welcome. Both little hands I crushed -together passionately in my grasp, and would have dropped on my knees to -kiss them but for two hindrances: Firstly, her father appeared at the -moment close behind her—and things which are but natural in privacy are -like to seem theatrical when critically observed. Further, finding -perhaps a too frank eloquence in my demeanour, Yvonne had swiftly but -firmly extricated her hands from their captivity. She had said nothing -but “I am glad to see you again, after so long a time, monsieur;” and -this so quietly that I knew not whether it was indifference spoke, or -emotion. - -But the welcome of Giles de Lamourie was right ardent for one of his -courteous reserve. There was an affection in his voice that warmed my -spirit strangely, the more that I had never suspected it; and he kissed -me on both cheeks as if I had been his own son—“as,” said the up-leaping -heart within me, “I do most resolutely set myself to be!” - -“And to what good chance do we owe it, Paul, that we see you here at -Grand Pré, at a time when the swords of New France are everywhere busy?” -he asked. - -“To a brief season of idleness in two years of ceaseless action,” I -replied, “and to a desire that would not be denied.” I sought furtively -to catch Yvonne’s eyes; but she was picking an apple-flower to pieces. -This little dainty depredation of her fingers pierced me with -remembrance. - -“You have earned your idleness, Paul,” said De Lamourie, “if the stories -we hear of your exploits be the half of them true. But we had thought -down here that Quebec”—“or Trois Pistoles,” murmured Yvonne over the -remnants of the apple-flower—“would have offered metal more attractive -for the enrichment of your holiday.” - -I flushed hotly. But in the deepening dusk my confusion passed unseen. -What gossip had come this way? What magnifying and distortion of a very -little affair, so soon gone by and so lightly forgotten? - -“The swords of New France are just now sheathed for a little,” said I, -with some reserve in my voice. “They are biding the call to new and -hotter work, or I should not be free for even this breathing-spell. As -for Quebec,”—for I would not seem to have heard mademoiselle’s -interruption,—“for years there has been but one place where I desired to -be, and that is here; so I have come, but it is not for long. Great -schemes are afoot.” - -“For long or for little, my boy,” said he, dropping his tone of banter, -“your home here must be under our roof.” - -Having intended staying, as of old, with Father Fafard, I knew not for a -moment what to say. I would—and yet a voice within said I would not. I -noted that Yvonne spoke no word in support of her father’s invitation. -While I hesitated we had entered the house, and I found myself bending -over the wizened little hand of Madame de Lamourie. My decision was -postponed. Had I guessed how my silence would by and by be -misinterpreted I would assuredly have decided on the spot, whichever -way. - -“It is not only for the breath of gayety from Chateau St. Louis which -you bring with you, my dear Paul, that you are welcome,” said Madame, -with that fine air of affectionate coquetry, reminiscent of Versailles, -which so delightfully became her. - -I kissed her hand again. We had always been the best of friends. - -“But let me present to you,” she went on, “our good friend, who must -also be yours: Mr. George Anderson;” and observing for the first time a -tall, broad-shouldered, ruddy man, who stood a little to one side of the -fireplace, I bowed to him very courteously. Our eyes met. I felt for him -a prompt friendliness, and as if moved by one impulse we clasped hands. - -“With all my heart,” said I, being then in cordial mood, and eager to -love one loved of these my friends. - -“And mine,” he said, in a quiet, grave voice, “if it please you, -monsieur.” - -“Yet,” I laughed, “if you are English, Monsieur Anderson, we must -officially be enemies. I trust our difference may be in all love.” - -“Yes,” said Madame, with a dry little biting accent which she much -affected, “yes, indeed, in all love, my dear Paul. Monsieur Anderson -_is_ English—and he is the betrothed husband of our Yvonne,” she added, -watching me keenly. - -It seemed to me as if there had been a sudden roaring noise and then -these last dreadful words coming coldly upon a great silence. At that -moment everything stamped itself ineffaceably on my brain. I see myself -grasp the back of a chair, that I may stand with the more irreproachable -steadiness. I see Madame’s curious scrutiny. I see Yvonne’s eyes, which -had swiftly sought my face as the words were spoken, change and warm to -mine for the least fraction of a second. I see all this now, and her -slim form unspeakably graceful against the dark wainscoting of the -chimney side. Then it all seemed to swim, and I knew that it was with -great effort of will I steadied myself; and at last I perceived that -Yvonne was holding both Anderson and her father in rapt attention by a -sort of radiance of light speech and dainty gesture. I dimly came to -understand that Yvonne had seen in my face something which she had not -looked to see there, and, moved to compassion, had come to my aid and -covered up my hurt. In a moment more I was master of myself, but I knew -that Madame’s eyes had never left me. She liked me more than a little; -but a certain mirthful malice, which she had retained from the old gay -days in France, made her cruel whensoever one afforded her the spectacle -of a tragedy. - -All this takes long in the telling; but it was perhaps not above a -minute ere I was able to perceive that Mademoiselle’s diversion had been -upon the theme of one’s duty to one’s enemies. What she had said I knew -not, nor know I to this day; but I will wager it was both witty and -wise. I only know that at this point a direct appeal was made to me. - -“You, monsieur,” said Anderson, in his measured tones, “will surely -grant that it is always virtuous, and often possible, to love one’s -enemies.” - -“But never prudent!” interjected De Lamourie, whose bitter experiences -in Paris colored his conclusions. - -“Your testimony, monsieur, as that of one who has sent so many of them -to Paradise, is much to be desired upon this subject,” exclaimed Yvonne, -in a tone of challenge, at the same time flashing over me a look which -worked upon me like a wizard’s spell, making me straightway strong and -ready. - -“Well may we love them!” I cried, with an air of sober mockery. “Our -enemies are our opportunities; and without our opportunities, where are -we?” - -“All our life is our opportunity, and if we be brave and faithful to -church and king we are made great by it,” exclaimed a harsh, intense -voice behind us. - -I noted a look of something like consternation on De Lamourie’s face, -and a mocking defiance in the eyes of Yvonne. We turned about hastily to -greet the new-comer. I knew at once, by hearsay, that dark-robed -figure—the high, narrow, tonsured head—the long nose with its -aggressively bulbous tip—the thin lips with their crafty smile—the -dogged and indomitable jaw. It was La Garne, the Black Abbé, master of -the Micmac tribes, and terror of the English in Acadie. He was a devoted -servant to the flag I served, the lilied banner of France; but I dreaded -and detested him, for I held that he brought dishonour on the French -cause, as well as on his priestly office, by his devious methods, his -treacheries, and his cruelties. War, I cannot but think, becomes a gross -and hideous thing whensoever it is suffered to slip out of the control -of gentlemen, who alone know how to maintain its courtesies. - - - - - Chapter V - - The Black Abbé Defers - - -“You are welcome, father,” began Monsieur de Lamourie, advancing to meet -the visitor, “to my humble”—But the harsh voice cut him short. - -“Lie not to me, Giles de Lamourie,” said the grim priest, extending a -long left hand as if in anathema. “Well do I know my face is not welcome -in this house!” - -De Lamourie drew himself up haughtily, and Madame interrupted. - -“Good father,” said she most sweetly, but with an edge to her voice, “do -you not take something the advantage of your gown? Might I not be so -bold as to entreat a more courteous deliverance of your commands?” - -“What have I to do with forms and courtesies, woman?” he answered—and -ignored Yvonne’s laughing acquiescence of “What, indeed, monsieur?” “I -come to admonish you back to your duty; and to warn you, if you heed -not. I learn that you are about to go to Halifax, Giles de Lamourie, and -there forswear France, bowing your neck to the English robber. Is this -true?” - -“I am about to swear allegiance to England, Father La Garne,” said De -Lamourie coldly. - -The priest’s pale eyes narrowed. - -“There is yet time to change your mind,” said he, in a voice grown -suddenly smooth. “Give me your word that you will remain faithful to -France and the bolt which even now hangs over your recreant head shall -never fall!” - -I looked about me in deep astonishment. Yvonne’s face was splendid in -its impatient scorn. Madame looked solicitous, but composed. Anderson -smiled coolly. But De Lamourie was hot with indignation. - -“It was not to be dictated to by every tonsured meddler that I came to -Acadie,” he cried, rashly laying himself open. - -“I have heard as much,” said the priest dryly. “But enough of this -talk,” he went on, his voice again vibrating. “You, George Anderson, -seducer of these people from their king, look to yourself! Your -threshold is red. As for this house”—and he looked around with slow and -solemn menace—“as for this house, it shall not see to-morrow’s sun!” - -Hitherto I had been silent, as became a mere new-come guest; but this -was too much for me. - -“Ay, but it shall!” said I bluntly, stepping forward. - -La Garne looked at me with unaffected surprise and contempt. - -“And pray, sir, who may you be to speak so confidently?” he asked. - -“I am an officer of the king, Sir Abbé,” I answered, “and a messenger of -the governor of New France, and a man of my word. Your quarrel here I do -not very well understand, but I beg _you_ to understand that this house -is the house of my friends. I know you, Sir Abbé,—I have heard rumour of -your work at Beaubassin, Baie Verte, and Gros Ile. I tell you, I will -not suffer you to lift your hand against this house!” - -“Truly, monsieur, you speak large,” sneered the priest. “But you may, -perchance, have authority. I seem to have seen your face before. Your -name?” - -“Paul Grande,” said I, bowing. - -La Garne’s face changed. He looked at me curiously, and then, with a -sort of bitter tolerance, shrugged his shoulders. - -“You have been to Monsieur le Commandant Vergor, at Beauséjour?” he -asked. - -I bowed. - -“And to Vaurin, at Piziquid?” he went on thoughtfully. - -I fancied that a shade of suspicion passed over the faces of my hosts; -and Yvonne’s face paled slightly; but I replied: - -“I have just come from Piziquid.” - -“Your authority is sufficient, then, monsieur,” said he. “The messenger -of the governor to Vaurin doubtless knows his business, and it is -unnecessary for me to interfere.” - -I bowed my thanks, holding courtesy to be in place, since I had gained -my point. - -“And I pardon your abruptness, Monsieur Grande,” continued the Black -Abbé. “We are both working for the king. We have no right to quarrel -when we have such great work to do. I am sure I may accept your apology -for your abruptness?” And he looked at me with an air of suggestion. - -I was puzzled at his changed demeanour, but I would not show myself at a -loss. Still less would I apologize, or suffer any pretence of -friendliness between himself and me. - -“I am sure you may,” said I pleasantly. And I think the reply a prudent -one. - -Yvonne smiled—I just caught the smile; but the abbé turned on his heel. - -“I withdraw my admonition,” he said to De Lamourie smoothly, “and leave -your case in the hands of this gentleman, your good friend. I wish you a -swift conversion—or a long repentance.” And with a glance at me which I -liked not, but could by no means interpret, he was gone. - -The room grew straightway the brighter for his going. - - - - - Chapter VI - - A New England Englishman - - -I have said that the room grew brighter for the going of the Black Abbé. -To me, at least, it seemed so. Yet, after his departure, there fell a -palpable air of constraint. Monsieur de Lamourie regarded me with -something almost like suspicion. Madame eyed me with a curious scrutiny, -tolerant, yet as it were watchful. As for Yvonne, her face was coldly -averted. All this troubled me. Only the New Englander came to my rescue. - -With a smile of frank satisfaction he remarked: - -“You dealt very effectively and expeditiously with that black-frocked -firebrand, monsieur. You must have great influence at headquarters to be -able to treat La Garne with so little ceremony.” - -Now, puzzled though I was, I was marvellously elated by my easy victory -over the notorious Black Abbé. There was doubtless a vainglorious ring -in the would-be modest voice with which I answered. - -“Yes,” said I, “I did not expect quite so swift a triumph. I thought I -might even be driven to threats ill fitting the dignity of his office. -But doubtless he saw that I was rather in earnest.” - -“He certainly seemed to regard you as one having authority,” said De -Lamourie gravely. - -“Or even,” murmured Madame, with that dryness in her voice, “as in some -way his confederate.” - -“Or Vaurin’s,” came a cold suggestion from Mademoiselle. Her eyes were -gazing steadily into the fire; but I caught the scornful curl of her -lip. - -At this I felt myself flush hotly, I knew not just why. It seemed as if -I lay under some obscure but disgraceful imputation. With sudden warmth -I cried: - -“I have no authority, save as an officer of the king, with a clean -record and a sword not unproven. I have no confederate, nor am I like to -be engaged in such work as shall make one needful. And as for this -Vaurin,” I demanded, turning to Yvonne, “who is he? He seems a personage -indeed; yet never had I heard of him till the commandant of Beauséjour -gave me a letter for his hand.” - -“I cannot doubt you, monsieur,” interposed Anderson heartily. “This -Vaurin is a very sorry scoundrel, a spy and an assassin, who does the -dirty work of those who employ him. I think it was ill done of Vergor to -give to any gentleman a commission to that foul cur.” - -I sprang to my feet and walked thrice up and down the room, while all -sat silent. I think my anger was plain enough to every one, for the old -friendliness—as I afterwards remembered—came back to the faces of -Monsieur and Madame de Lamourie, and Yvonne’s eyes shone upon me for an -instant with a wistfulness which I could not understand. Yet this, as I -said, is but what came back to me afterwards. I felt Yvonne’s eyes but -as in a dream at that moment. - -“Vergor shall answer to me,” I cried bitterly. “It is ill work serving -under the public thieves whom the intendant puts in power to-day. One -never knows what baseness may not be demanded of him. Vergor shall clear -himself, or meet me!” - -“What hope is there for your cause,” asked Anderson, “when they who -guide New France are so corrupt?” - -“They are not all corrupt!” I declared with vehemence. “The governor is -honest. The general is honour itself. But, alas, the most grievous -enemies of New France are those within her gate! Bigot is the prince of -robbers. His hands and those of his gang are at her throat. It is he we -fear, and not you English, brave and innumerable though you are.” - -And with this my indignation at Vergor, who, it was plain, had put upon -me an errand unbecoming to a gentleman and an officer of the king, -spread out to include the whole corrupt crew of which the intendant -Bigot was the too efficient captain. Seating myself again by the hearth, -I gave bitter account of the wrong and infamy at Quebec, and showed how, -to the anguish of her faithful sons, New France was being stripped and -laid bare to the enemy. My heart being as dead with my own sudden -sorrow, the story which I told of my country’s plight was steeped in -dark forebodings. - -When I had finished, the conversation became general, and I presently -withdrew into my heaviness. I remember that Madame rallied me, at last, -on my silence; but Yvonne came quickly and sweetly to my help, recalling -my long day’s journey and insisting upon my drinking a cup of spiced -brandy—“very sound and good,” she declared, “and but late from -Louisburg, no thanks to King George!” - -As I sat sipping of the fragrant brew—though it had been wormwood it had -seemed to me delicate from her hand—I tried to gather together the -shattered fragments of my dream. - -There she sat—of all women the one woman, as I had in the long, solitary -night-watches come to know, whom my soul needed and my body needed. My -inmost thought, speaking with itself in nakedest sincerity, declared -that it was she only whom God had made for me—or for whom God had made -me. The whole truth, as I felt it, required both statements to perfect -its expression. There she sat, so near that her voice was making a -wonder of music in my ears, so near that her eyes from time to time -flashed a palpable radiance upon my face; yet further away than when I -lightened with dreams of her the long marches beside the Miami or lay -awake to think of her, in the remote huts of the Natchez. So far away -had a word, a brief word, put her; yet here she sat where I could grasp -her just by stretching out my hand. - -As I thought of it her eyes met mine. I swear that I made no motion. My -grasp never relaxed from the arm of the black old chair where it had -fixed itself. Yet the thought must have cried out to her, for a look of -alarm, yet not wholly of denial, flickered for one heart-beat in her -gaze. She rose, with a little aimless movement, looked at me, swayed her -body toward me almost imperceptibly, then sat down again in her old -place with her face averted. At once she began talking with a whimsical -gayety that engrossed all ears and left me again in my gloom. - -I scrutinized this man, the New Englander, who sat drinking her with his -eyes. For the joy that was in his face as he watched her I cursed -him—yet ere the curse had gone forth I blessed him bitterly. How could I -curse him when I saw that his soul was on its knees to her, as mine was. -I felt myself moved toward him in a strange affection. Yet—and yet! - -He was a tall man, well over six feet in height, of a goodly breadth of -shoulder,—taller than myself by three inches at least, and heavier in -build. He had beauty, too, which I could not boast of; though before -love taught me humility I had been vain enough to deem my face not all -ill-favored. His abundant light hair, slightly waving; his ruddy, -somewhat square face, with its good chin and kind mouth; his frank and -cheerful blue eyes, fearless but not aggressive; his air of directness -and good intention—all compelled my tribute of admiration, and made me -think little of my own sombre and sallow countenance, with its straight -black hair, straight black brows, straight black moustache; its mouth -large and hard set; its eyes wherein mirth and moroseness were at -frequent strife for mastery. Being, as I have reluctantly confessed, a -vain man without good cause for vanity, I knew the face well—and it was -with small satisfaction I remembered it now, while looking upon the -manly fairness of George Anderson. - -Yet, such is the inconsistency of men, I was conscious of a faint, -inexplicable pity for him. I felt myself stronger than he, and wiser in -the knowledge of life. But he had the promise of that which to me was -more than life. He had, as I kept telling myself, Yvonne’s love; yet—had -he? So obstinate is hope, I would not yield all credence to this -telling. At least I had one advantage, if no other. I was wiser than he -in this, that I knew my love for Yvonne, and he did not know it. Yet -this was but a poor vantage, and even upon the moment I had resolved to -throw it away. I resolved that he should be as wise as I on this point, -if telling could make him so. - - - - - Chapter VII - - Guard! - - -I had just arrived at this significant determination when I was roused -from my reverie by Anderson making his farewells. He was holding out his -hand to me. - -“Your face is stern, monsieur,” he said. “Were you fighting your old -battles o’er again?” - -“No—new ones!” I laughed, springing up and seizing his hand. - -“May you win them, as of old!” he exclaimed, with great heartiness. - -“You are generous, monsieur,” I said gently, looking him in the eyes. - -But this remark he took as quite the ordinary reply, and with a bright -glance for us all he moved toward the door. Yvonne followed him, as it -seemed was expected of her. - -“_Must_ you go so early?” she asked, with a kindness in her voice which -pierced me. - -“Yes,” he said, looking down at her upturned face. “The tide is just -right now, and this fair wind must not be lost. It will be a fine run -under this moon; and Pierre has the new boat over to-night.” - -“It _is_ a good night,” she assented, peering through the open door with -a gesture of gay inquiry; “and how sweet the apple-blossoms smell! Have -you as good air as this, Monsieur Grande, on those western rivers of -yours, or at Trois Pistoles?” - -As she did not turn her head or seem to require an answer, I made none. -And, indeed, I was spared the necessity, for Anderson intervened with -matter of his own. - -“Come down to the gate with me, won’t you?” I heard him beg in a low -voice. - -But for some reason Mademoiselle was not disposed to be kind that night. -She drew back, and looked down pointedly at her dainty embroidered -moccasins. - -“Oh,” she cried lightly and aloud, with a tantalizing ring in her voice, -“just think how wet the path is!” - -Anderson turned away with a disappointed air, whereupon she reached out -her hand imperiously for him to kiss. Then she waved him a gay _bon -voyage_, and came back into the room with a quick lightness of step -which seemed like laughter in itself. Her eyes were a dancing marvel, -with some strange excitement. - -“Monsieur,” she began, coming straight toward me. But I just then awoke -to my purpose. - -“A thousand pardons, mademoiselle and madame!” I cried, springing to my -feet and hastening to the door. “I will be back in two moments; but I -have a word for Monsieur Anderson before he goes.” - -That I should interrupt her in this way, and rush off when she was about -to speak to me, fetched a sudden little cloud of astonishment over -Yvonne’s face. But I would not be delayed. I made haste down the path -and caught Anderson before he reached the gate. He paused with an air of -genial surprise. - -“Your pardon, monsieur,” said I; “but with your permission I will -accompany you a few steps, as I have something to say to you.” - -“I am glad to have your company, monsieur,” said he, with a manner that -spoke sincerity. - -“Are you?” said I abruptly. “Well, somehow I take your words as -something more than the thin clink of compliment. I like you—I liked you -the moment my eyes fell upon you.” - -His face flashed into a rare illumination, and without a word he held -out his hand. - -I could not but smile responsively, though I thrust my hand behind my -back and shook my head. - -“Wait!” said I. “I want to say to you that—I love—I love Mademoiselle de -Lamourie!” - -His face clouded a little, and he withdrew his hand, but not angrily. - -“We are very much of one mind in that, I assure you,” he said. - -“The very ground she walks upon is sacred to me,” I continued. - -He smiled ever so little at the passion of my speech, but answered -thoughtfully: - -“It is but natural, I suppose. I do not think we will quarrel upon that -score, monsieur.” - -“For two years,” said I, in a low voice, speaking coldly and evenly, “I -have been moved night and day by this love only. It has supported me in -hunger and in weariness; it has led me in the wilderness; it has -strengthened me in the fight; it has been more to me than all ambition. -Even my love of my country has been second to it. I came here to-day for -one reason only. And I find—you!” - -“None can know so well as I what you have lost, monsieur,” said he very -gravely, “as none can know so well as I what I have gained.” - -His kindness, no less than his confidence, hurt me. - -“Are you so sure?” I asked. - -“The discussion is unusual, monsieur,” said he, with a sudden -resentment. “I will only remind you that Mademoiselle de Lamourie has -accepted my suit.” - -No man’s sternness has ever troubled me, and I smiled slightly in -acknowledgment of his very reasonable remark. - -“The situation is unusual, so you must pardon me,” said I, “if I -arrogate to myself a somewhat unusual freedom. I tell you now frankly -that by all open and honorable means I will strive to win the love of -Mademoiselle de Lamourie. I have hope that she has not yet clearly found -the wisdom of her heart. I believe that I, not you, am the man whom she -will love. Laugh at my vanity as much as you will. I am not yet ready to -say my hope is dead, my life turned to nothingness.” - -“You are weak,” said he, with some severity, “to hold your life thus, as -it were, in jeopardy of a woman’s whim.” - -I could hardly restrain my voice from betraying a certain triumph which -I felt at this sign of imperfection in his love. - -“If you hold it a weakness,” said I, “there is a point at last in which -we differ. If it _be_ a weakness, then it is one which, up to two years -ago, I had scarce dared hope to attain. Few, indeed, are the women, and -as few men, strong enough for the full knowledge of love.” - -“Yet the greatest love is not the whole of life,” he averred -disputatiously. - -“You speak but coldly,” said I, “for the lover of Mademoiselle de -Lamourie.” - -He started. I had stung him. “I am of the Society of Friends—a Quaker!” -said he harshly. “I do not fight. I lift not my hand against my -fellow-man. Yet did I believe that you would succeed in winning her -love, I think I would kill you where you stand!” - -I liked the sharp lines of his face as he said it, fronting me with eyes -grown suddenly cruel. I felt that he meant it, for the moment at least. - -“Say, rather,” said I, smiling, “that you would honestly try your best -to kill me. It would be an interesting experiment. Well, now we -understand each other. _I_ will honestly try my best to do you what will -be, in my eyes, the sorest injury in the world. But I will try by fair -means only, and if I fail I will bear you no grudge. In all else, -however, believe that I do greatly desire your welfare, and will seize -with eagerness any occasion of doing you a service. You are perhaps less -unworthy of Mademoiselle de Lamourie than I am, save that you cannot -love her so well. And _now_,” I added with a smile, “will you take my -hand?” - -As I held it out to him he at first drew back and seemed disposed to -repulse me. Then his face cleared. - -“You are honest!” he exclaimed, and wrung my hand with great cordiality. -“I rather like you—and I am very sorry for you. I have her promise.” - -“Well,” said I, “if also you have her love you are the most fortunate -man on God’s earth!” - -“I have it!” said he blithely, and strode off down the path between the -apple-trees, his fine shoulders held squarely, and a confidence in all -his bearing. But a wave of pity for him, and strange tenderness, went -over me in that moment, for in that moment I felt an assurance that I -should win. - -It was an assurance doomed to swift ruin. It was an assurance destined -soon to be hidden under such a vast wreckage of my hopes that even -memory marvelled when she dragged it forth to light. - - - - - Chapter VIII - - The Moon in the Apple-bough - - -During all our conversation we had stood in plain view of the windows, -so that our friendly parting must have been visible to all the house. On -my return within doors I found Yvonne walking up and down in a graceful -impatience, her black lace shawl thrown lightly about her head. - -“If you want to,” said she, “you may come out on the porch with me for a -little while, monsieur. I want you to talk to me.” - -“Yvonne,” exclaimed her mother, in a rebuking voice, “will not this room -do as well?” - -“No, indeed, little mamma,” said she wilfully. “_Nothing_ will do as -well as the porch, where the moonlight is, and the smell of the -apple-blossoms. You know, dear, Grand Pré is not Paris!” - -“Nor yet is it Quebec,” said I pointedly. - -Monsieur de Lamourie smiled. Whatever Yvonne would was in his eyes good. -But her mother yielded only with a little gesture of protest. - -“Yvonne is always a law unto herself,” she murmured. - -“And to others, I judge,” said I, following the light figure out upon -the porch, and closing the door behind me. - -I praised the saints for the freedom of Grand Pré. At Quebec -Mademoiselle would have been the most formal of the formalists, because -in Quebec it was easy to be misjudged. - -In the corner of the porch, where a huge apple-bough thrust its blossoms -in beneath the roof, was slung a stout hammock such as sailors use on -shipboard. Mademoiselle de Lamourie had seen these during a voyage down -the Gulf from Quebec, and had so fancied them that her father had been -impelled to have one netted for her by the shad-fishers. It was her -favoured lounging-place, and thither she betook herself now without -apology. In silence I held the tricksy netting for her. In silence I -placed the cushion beneath her head. Then she said: - -“You may sit there,” and she pointed, with a little imperious motion, to -a stout bench standing against the wall. - -I accepted the seat, but not its location. I brought it and placed it as -close as I dared to the hammock. In doing so I clumsily set the hammock -swinging. - -“Please stop it,” said Mademoiselle; and as I seated myself I laid my -hand on the side of the hammock to arrest its motion. My fingers found -themselves in contact with other fingers, very slim and warm and soft. -My breath came in a quick gasp, and I drew away my hand in a strange and -overwhelming perturbation. The hammock was left to stop of itself—and, -indeed, its swinging was but slight. As for me, I was possessed by an -infinite amazement to find myself thus put to confusion by a touch. I -had no word to say, but sat gazing dumbly at the white figure in the -moonlight. - -Her face was very pallid in that colorless light, and her eyes greater -and darker than ever, deeps of mystery,—and now, I thought, of grave -mockery as well. She watched me for a little in silence, and then said: - -“I let you come out here to talk to me, monsieur!” - -I straightened myself upon the bench, and tried my voice. My misgivings -were justified. It trembled, beyond a doubt. The witch had me at a grave -disadvantage. But I spoke on quietly. - -“From my two years in the woods of the West, mademoiselle,” said I, “I -brought home to Grand Pré certain wonderful dreams. Of these I find some -more than realized; but one, which gave all meaning to the rest, has -been put to death this night.” - -“Even in Grand Pré dreams are no new thing,” she said in haste. “I want -to hear of deeds, of brave and great action. Tell me what you have -done—for I know that will be brave.” And she smiled at me such kind -encouragement that my heart began thumping with vehemence. However, I -made shift to tell her a little of my wanderings—of a bush fight here, a -night march there, of the foiling of a foe, of the timely succour of a -friend—till I saw that I was pleasing her. Her face leaned a little -toward me. Her eyes spoke, dilating and contracting. Her lips were -slightly parted as she listened. And into every adventure, every -situation, every movement, I contrived to weave a suggestion of her -influence, of the thought of her guiding and upholding me. These things, -touched lightly and at once let pass, she did not rebuke. She feigned -not to understand them. - -At last I paused and looked at her, waiting for a word of praise or -blame. - -“And your poetry, monsieur?” she said gently. “Surely that was not all -the time forgotten. This Acadian land, with its wonder and its beauty, -has found no interpreter but you, and your brave work in the field would -be a misfortune, not a benefit, if it cost us your song.” - -“The loss of my verses were no great loss,” said I. - -“Indeed, monsieur,” she said earnestly, “I do not think you can be as -modest as you pretend. But I am sincere. Since we have known your song -of them, I think that mamma and I have watched only through your eyes -the great sweep of the Minas tides. And only the other day I heard papa, -who cares for no poetry but his old ‘_Chansons de Gestes_,’ quoting you -to Father Fafard with evident enthusiasm.” She paused—but I said -nothing. I had talked long; and I wished her to continue. What she was -saying, the manner of her saying it, were such as I could long listen -to. - -“As for me,” she went on, “I never walk down the orchard in summer time -without saying over to myself your song of the apple-leaves.” - -“You do, really, remember my verses?” said I, flushing with surprise and -joy. I was not used to commendation for such things, my verses being -wont to win no more approval than they merited, which I felt to be very -little. - -She laughed softly, and began to quote: - - “O apple leaves, so cool and green - Against the summer sky, - You stir, although the wind is still - And not a bird goes by! - You start, - And softly move apart - In hushed expectancy. - Who is the gracious visitor - Whose form I cannot see? - - “O apple leaves, the mystic light - All down your dim arcade! - Why do your shadows tremble so, - Half glad and half afraid? - The air - Is an unspoken prayer; - Your eyes look all one way. - Who is the secret visitor - Your tremors would betray?” - -It was a slight thing, which I had never thought particularly well of; -but on her lips it achieved a music unimagined before. - -“Your voice,” said I, “makes it beautiful, as it makes all words -beautiful. Yes, I have written some small bits of verse during my exile, -but they have been different from those of mine which you honour with -your praise. They have had another, a more wonderful, theme—a theme all -too high for them, which nevertheless spurred them to their best. They -have at least one merit—they speak the truth from my heart.” As I spoke -I felt myself leaning forward, though not of set purpose, and my voice -sank almost to a whisper. - -“One of them,” I continued, begins in this way: - - “A moonbeam or a breath, above thine eyes I bow, - Silent, unseen, - But not, ah! not unknown”— - -“Wait!” she interrupted, in a voice that sounded a little faint. “Wait! -I want to hear them all, monsieur; but not to-night. You shall say them -to me to-morrow. I must not stay to listen to them to-night. I am a -little—cold, I think! Help me out, please!” And she rashly gave me her -hand. - -Now, it was my honest intention at that instant to do just her bidding -and no more; but when I touched her fingers reason and judgment flowed -from me. I bowed my head over them to the edge of the hammock, and with -both my hands crushed them to my lips. She sank back upon her cushion, -with a little catching of her breath. - -After a few moments I raised my head—but with no speech and with no set -purpose—and looked at her face. It was very grave, and curiously -troubled, but I detected no reproach in the great eyes that met mine. A -fierce impulse seized me to gather her in my arms—but I durst not, and -my eyes dropped as I thought of it. By chance they rested upon her -feet—upon the tiny, quill-worked, beaded white moccasins, demurely -crossed, the one over the other. Her skirt was so closely gathered about -her ankles that just an inch or two of one arched instep was visible -over the edge of the low-cut moccasin. Before I myself could realize -what I was about to do, or half the boldness of the act, in a passion -that was all worship I threw myself down beside her feet and kissed -them. - -It was for an instant only that my daring so prevailed. Then she -suddenly slipped away. In a breathless confusion I sprang to my feet, -and found her standing erect at the other side of the hammock. Her eyes -blazed upon me; but one small hand was at her throat, as if she found it -hard to speak. - -“How could you dare?” she panted. “What right did I give you? What right -did I ever give you?” - -I leaned against the pillar that supported one end of the hammock. - -“Forgive me! I could not help it. I have loved you, worshipped you, so -long!” I said in a very low voice. - -“How dare you speak so?” she cried. “You forget that”— - -“No, I remember!” I interrupted doggedly. “I forget nothing. You do not -love him. You are mine.” - -“Oh!” she gasped, lifting both hands sharply to her face and dropping -them at once. “I shall never trust you again.” - -And in a moment she had flashed past me, with a sob, and disappeared -into the house. - - - - - Chapter IX - - In Sleep a King, but Waking, no such Matter - - -De Lamourie himself showed me to my room, a low chamber under the eaves, -very plainly furnished. In the houses of the few Acadian gentry there -was little of the luxury to be found in the seigneurial mansions of the -St. Lawrence. In the De Lamourie house, for example, there were but two -serving-maids, with one man to work the little farm. - -If De Lamourie had noted any excitement on Yvonne’s part, or any -abstraction on mine, he said nothing of it. With simple kindness he set -down the candle on my dressing-table and wished me good sleep. But at -the door he turned. - -“Are you well assured that the abbé will not attempt to carry out his -threat?” he asked, with a tinge of anxiety in his voice. - -“I am confident of it,” I answered boldly. “That worthy ecclesiastic -will not try issues with me, when I hold the king’s commission.” - -Just why I should have been so overweeningly secure is not clear to me -now that I look back upon it. That I should have expected the terrible -La Garne to bow so pliantly to my command appears to me now the most -fatuous of vain follies. In truth I was thinking only of Yvonne. But De -Lamourie seemed to take my assurance as final, and went away in blither -mood. - -My room was lighted by a narrow, high-peaked dormer window, through -which I could look out across the moonlit orchards, the level dyke -lands, the wide and winding mouth of the Gaspereau, and the -far-glimmering breast of Minas. Upon these my eyes rested long—but the -eyes of my soul saw quite another loveliness than that of the -moon-flooded landscape. They brooded upon Yvonne’s face—the troubled, -changing, pleading look in her eyes—her sharp and strange emotion at the -last. Over and over it all I went, reliving each moment, each word, each -look, each breath. Then, being deeply wearied by my long day’s tramp, -but with no hint of sleep coming to my eyes, I threw myself down upon -the bed to deliciously think it all over yet again. I had grown sure -that Yvonne loved me. Yet once more, in a still ecstasy of reverence and -love, I fell at her feet and kissed them. Then I thought about the stone -which Mother Pêche had given me, and its mystic virtues, which I would -explain to Yvonne on the morrow in the apple-orchard. Then I found -myself fancying that it was Yvonne who had given me the talisman, -bidding me guard it well if I would ever hope to win her from my English -rival. And then—the sunlight lay in a white streak across my bed-foot, -the morning sky was blue over the dyke lands, and the robins were joyous -in the apple-blooms under my window. What a marvellous air blew in upon -my face, sweet with all freshness and cleanness and wholesome strength! -I sprang up, deriding myself. I had slept all night in my clothes. - -At breakfast I found myself in plain favour; I had made good my boast -and shielded the house from the Black Abbé. Yvonne met my eager looks -with a baffling lightness. She was all gay courtesy to me, but there was -that in her face which well dashed my hopes. Some faint encouragement, -indeed, I drew from the thought that her pallor (which became her -wonderfully) seemed to tell the tale of a sleepless night. Had she, -then, lain awake, wearily reproaching herself, while I slept like a -clod? If so, my punishment was not long delayed. Before the breakfast -was over I was in a fever of despairing solicitude. At last I achieved a -moment’s speech with Yvonne while the others were out of earshot. - -“This morning,” said I, “in the apple-orchard, by an old tree which I -shall all my life remember, I am to read you those verses, am I not? -That was your decree.” - -She faced me with laughter in her eyes, but the eyes dropped in spite of -her, and the colour came a little back to her cheeks. - -“I decree otherwise this morning,” she said, in a voice whose lightness -was not perfect. “I am busy to-day, and shall not hear your poems at -all, unless you read them to _us_ this evening.” - -“I will read them to you alone,” I muttered, “who alone are the source -of them, or I will burn them at once!” - -“Don’t burn them,” she said, flashing one radiant glance at me. - -“Then when may I read them to you?” I begged. - -“When you are older, and a little wiser, and a great deal better,” she -laughed, turning away with a finality in her air that convinced me my -day was lost. - -Putting my bravest face on my defeat, I said to Madame de Lamourie: - -“If you will pardon me, Madame, I shall constrain myself and attend to -certain duties in and about Grand Pré to-day. I must see the curé; and I -have a commission to execute for the Sieur de Briart, which will take me -perhaps as far as Pereau. In such case I shall not be back here before -to-morrow noon.” - -“If our pleasure concerns you,” said Madame very graciously, “make your -absence as brief as you can.” - -“I was born with a nice regard for self,” I replied. “You may be sure I -shall return as quickly as possible.” - -“And what if the Black Abbé should come while you are away?” questioned -Yvonne, in mock alarm. - -“If that extraordinary priest makes my presence here a long necessity I -shall come to regard him as my best friend,” said I, laughing, as I -bowed myself out to join De Lamourie in a stroll over the farm. - -During this walk I learned much of the state of unrest and painful dread -under which Acadie was laboring. De Lamourie told me how the English -governor at Halifax was bringing a mighty pressure to bear upon all the -Acadian householders, urging them to swear allegiance to King George. -This, he said, very many were willing to do, as the English had governed -them with justice and a most patient indulgence. For his own part, while -he regretted to go counter to opinions which I held well-nigh sacred, he -declared that, in his judgment, the cause of France was forever lost in -Acadie, if not in all Canada. He felt it his duty to give in his -allegiance to the English throne, under whose protection he had -prospered these many years. But strong as the English were, he said, the -prospect was not reassuring; for many of those who had taken the oath -had been brought to swift repentance by the Black Abbé’s painted and -yelling pack, the very Christian Micmacs of Shubenacadie; while others -had been pillaged, maltreated, and even in some cases murdered, by the -band of masquerading cut-throats who served the will of the infamous -Vaurin. - -At this I grew hot within, realizing as I had not done before the vile -connection into which the Commandant Vergor had cast me. But I said -nothing, being unwilling to interrupt De Lamourie’s impassioned story. -He told of horrid treacheries on the part of the Micmacs, disavowed, -indeed, by La Garne, but unquestionably winked at by him as a means of -keeping the Acadians in hand. He told of whole villages wiped out by the -Black Abbé’s order, the houses burned, the trembling villagers removed -to Ile St. Jean or across the isthmus, that they might be beyond the -reach of English seductions. He told, too, of the hideous massacre at -Dartmouth, the infant English settlement across the harbor from Halifax. -This had come to my ears, but he gave me the reeking particulars. - -“And this, too,” I asked in horror, “is it La Garne’s work?” - -“He is accused of it by the English,” said he, “but for once he is -accused unjustly, I do believe. It was Vaurin who planned it; Vaurin and -his cut-throats, disguised as Indians and with a few of La Garne’s flock -to help, who carried it out. It was too purposeless for La Garne. He -rules his savages with a rod of iron, and it is said that his -displeasure lay heavy for a time upon the braves who had taken part in -that outrage. They went without pay or booty for many months. But at -length he forgave them—he had work for them to do.” - -When the tale was done, and it was a tale that filled me with shame for -my country’s cause, I said: - -“It is well my word carried such weight with the good abbé last night. -It is well indeed, and it is wonderful!” - -“I cannot even yet quite understand it,” said De Lamourie, “but the -essential part is the highly satisfactory result. I am going to Halifax -next Monday, Paul, with a half score followers who feel as I do; and -though I cannot expect you to sympathize with my course, I dare to hope -you may be able to prolong your visit so as to keep my wife and daughter -under your effective protection.” - -I think I must have let the eagerness with which I accepted this trust -betray itself in voice or face, for Monsieur de Lamourie looked at me -curiously. But I really cared little what his suspicions might be. If I -could win Yvonne I thought I might be sure of Yvonne’s father. - -Having well admired the orchard, and tried to distinguish the “pippin” -trees from the “belle-fleurs,” the “Jeannetons” from the “Pride of -Normandie;” having praised the rich and even growth of the flax field; -having talked with an excellent assumption of wisdom on the well-bred -and well-fed cattle which were a hobby with this courtier farmer, this -Versailles Acadian, I stepped forth into the main street of Grand Pré -and turned toward the house of Father Fafard. I was curiously troubled -by an uneasiness as to the Black Abbé, and I knew no better antidote to -a bad priest than a good one. - - - - - Chapter X - - A Grand Pré Morning - - -When I stepped off the wide grounds of Monsieur de Lamourie I was at the -extreme eastern end of the village. How little did I dream that this -fairest of Acadian towns was lying even now beneath the shadow of doom! -I am never superstitious in the morning. Little did I dream how near was -the fulfilment of Grûl’s grim prophecy, or how, in that fulfilment, -Grand Pré was presently to fade like an exhalation from the face of this -wide green Acadian land! It pleases me, since no mortal eye shall ever -again see Grand Pré as she was, to find that now I recall with -clear-edged memory the picture which she made that June morning. Not -only do I see her, but I hear her pleasant sounds—the shallow rushing of -the Gaspereau at ebb; the mooing of the cattle on the uplands; the -mellow tangle of small bell-music from the bobolinks a-hover over the -dyke meadows; now and then a neighbour call from roadside to barn or -porch or window; and ever the cheery _cling-clank_, _cling-clank_ from -the forge far up the street. Not only do I hear the pleasant sounds, but -the clean smells of that fragrant country come back continually with -wholesome reminiscence. Oh, how the apple-blossoms breathed their souls -out upon that tender morning air! How the spring wind, soft with a vital -moisture, persuaded forth the obscure essences of grass and sod and -thicket! How good was the salty sea-tang from the uncovered flats, and -the emptied channels, and the still-dripping lines of tide-mark sedge! -There was a faint savour of tar, too, at intervals, evasively pungent; -for some three furlongs distant, at the end of a lane which ran at right -angles to the main street, a little creek fell into the Gaspereau, and -by the wharf at the creek-mouth were fishermen mending their boats for -the shad-fishing. - -Oh, that unjustly ignored member, the nose! How subtle and -indestructible are its memories! They know the swiftest way to the -sources of joy and tears. The eye, the ear, the nice nerves of the -finger tip,—these have no such sway over the mysteries of remembrance. -They have never been quite so intimate, for a sweet smell duly -apprehended becomes a part of the very brain and blood. I have a little -cream-yellow kerchief of silk laid away in many folds of scentless -paper. Sometimes I untie it and look at it. How well I remember it as -once it clung about the fair hair of my young mother! I see myself, a -thin, dark, grave-faced little boy, leaning against her knee and looking -up with love into her face. The memory moves me—but as a picture. “Was -it I?” I am able to wonder. “And did I, that dark boy, have a mother -like that?” But when I bury my face in the kerchief, and inhale the -faint savour it still wonderfully holds, I know, I feel it all. Once -more I am in her arms, strained to her breast, my small face pressed -close to her smooth neck where the tiny ripples of silken gold began; -and I smell the delicate, intimate sweetness that seemed to be her very -self; and my eyes run over with hot tears of longing for her kiss. I -have a skirt of hers, too, laid away, and an apron; but these do not so -much move me, for as a child I spoiled them with weeping into them, I -think. The kerchief was not then large enough to attract the childish -vehemence of my sorrow, so it was spared, till by and by I came to know -and guard the priceless talisman of memory which it held. - -For some minutes I stood at the street-foot, looking down the river-bank -to the wharf and the boats, steeping my brain in those pleasant smells -of Grand Pré. Then I turned up the street. It was all as I had left it -two years before, save that then the apple-trees were green like the -willows by the marsh edge; while now they were white and pink, a foam of -bee-thronged sweetness surging close about the village roofs. The -cottages on either side the street were low, and dazzling white with -lime-wash from the Piziquid quarries. Their wide-flaring gables were -presented with great regularity to the street. The roofs of the larger -cottages were broken by narrow dormer windows; and all, large and small -alike, were stained to a dark purplish-slate color with a wash which is -made, I understand, by mixing the lime with a quantity of slaked -hard-wood ash. The houses stood each with a little space before it, now -neatly tilled and deeply tufted with young green, but presently to -become a mass of colour when the scarlet lychnis, blue larkspur, -lavender, marigolds, and other summer-blooming plants should break into -flower. Far up the street, at the point where a crossroad led out over -the marshes to the low, dark-wooded ridge of the island, stood the -forge; and as I drew nearer the warm, friendly breath of the fire purred -under the anvil’s clinking. Back of the forge, along the brink of the -open green levels, stood a grove of rounded willow-trees. Further on, a -lane bordered with smaller cabins ran in a careless, winding fashion up -the hillside; and a little way from the corner, dwarfing the roofs, -loftily overpeering the most venerable apple-trees, and wearing a -conscious air of benignant supervision, rose the church of Grand Pré, -somewhat squatly capacious in the body, but with a spire that soared -very graciously. Just beyond, but hidden by the church, I could see in -my mind’s eye the curé’s cottage. My footsteps hastened at the thought -of Father Fafard and his greeting. - -The men of the village were at that hour mostly away in the fields; but -there were enough at home about belated barnyard business to halt me -many times with their welcomes before I got to the forge. These -greetings, in the main, had the old-time heartiness, making me feel my -citizenship in Grand Pré. But there was much eager interrogation as to -the cause of my presence, and a something of suspicion, at times, in the -acceptance of my simple answer, which puzzled and vexed me. It was borne -in upon me that I was thought to be commissioned with great matters, and -my frankness but a mask for grave and dubious affairs. - -Outside the forge, when at last I came to it, stood waiting two horses, -while another was inside being shod. The acrid smell of the searing iron -upon the hoof awoke in my breast a throng of boyish memories, which, -however, I had not time to note and discriminate between; for the owners -of the two horses hailed and stopped me. They were men of the -out-settlements, whom I knew but well enough to pass the weather with. -Yet I saw it in their eyes that they had heard something of my arrival. -Question hung upon their lips. I gave them no time for it, but with as -little patience as consisted with civility I hastened into the forge and -seized the hand of the smith, my old friend and my true friend, Nicole -Brun. - -“Master Paul!” he cried, in a voice which meant a thousand welcomes; and -stood gripping my fingers, and searching me with his eyes, while the -iron in his other hand slowly faded from pink to purple. - -“Well,” I laughed presently, “there is one man in Grand Pré, I perceive, -who is merely glad to greet me home, and not too deeply troubled over -the reasons for my coming.” - -“Hein! You’ve seen it and heard it already,” said Nicole, releasing my -fingers from his knotty grasp, and throwing back his thick shoulders -with a significant shrug. “Mother Pêche told me last night of your -coming; and last night, too, the Black Abbé passed this way. The town is -all of a buzz with reasons, this way and that. And some there be that -are for you, but more that fear you, Master Paul.” - -“Fear me?” I asked, incredulous. - -“Along of the Black Abbé and Vaurin!” answered Nicole, as if explaining -everything. - -“That Vaurin—curse him!” I exclaimed angrily. “But what say _you_, -Nicole? I give you my word, as I have told every one, I come to Grand -Pré on my own private business, and mix not at all with public matters.” - -“So?” said he, lifting his shaggy eyebrows in plain surprise. “But in -any case it had been all the same to me. I’m a quiet man, and bide me -here, taking no part but to forge an honest shoe for the beast of friend -or foe; but I’m _your_ man, Master Paul, through thick and thin, as my -father was your father’s. ‘Tis a hard thing to decide, these days, what -with Halifax and the English governor pulling one way, Quebec and the -Black Abbé pulling the other, and his reverence’s red devils up to Lord -knows what! But I follow you, Master Paul, come what may! I’m ready.” - -I laid my hand laughingly on his shoulder, and thanked him. - -“I believe you, my friend,” said I. “And there’s no man I trust more. -But I’ve no lead to set you just now. Be true to France, in all -openness, and lend no ear to treachery, is all I say. I am the king’s -man, heart and soul; but the English are a fair foe, and to be fought -with fair weapons, say I, or not at all.” - -“Right you are, Master Paul,” grunted Nicole in hearty approval. There -was a triumphant grin on his square and sooty face, which I marked with -a passing wonder. - -“And as for this Vaurin,” I continued, “I spit on all such sneaking -fire-in-the-night, throat-slitting, scalp-lifting rabble, who bring a -good cause to bitter shame!” - -I spoke with unwonted heat; for I was yet wroth at the commandant for -his misuse of my ignorance, and smarting raw at the notion of being -classed in with Vaurin. - -I observed that at my words Nicole’s triumphant grin was shot across -with a sort of apprehension; and at the same moment I observed, too, a -sturdy stranger, apparently the owner of the horse now being shod. He -sat to the right of the forge fire, far back against the wall; but as I -finished he sprang to his feet and came briskly forward. - -“Blood of God,” he snarled blasphemously, “but this is carrying the joke -too far! You play your part a trifle too well, young man. Let me counsel -you to keep a respectful tongue in your head when you speak of your -betters.” - -“Faith, and I do that!” said I pleasantly, taking note of him with care. -From his speech I read him to be a Gascon of the lower sort; while from -his dress I judged that he played the gentleman adventurer. But I set -him down for a hardy rogue. - -“But from whom do I receive in such ill language such excellent good -advice?” I went on. - -“One who can enforce it!” he cried roughly, misled by my civil air. “I’m -a friend of Captain Vaurin, whom I have the honour to serve. It seems to -suit some purpose of yours just now to deny it, but you were with him -yesterday, in counsel with him, a messenger from Colonel Vergor to him; -and you came on here at his orders.” - -“That is a lie!” said I very gently, smiling upon him. “The other -rascal, Vergor, tricked me with his letter; and he shall pay for it!” - -Thus given the lie, but so softly, the fellow uttered a choking gurgle -betwixt astonishment and rage, and I calculated the chance of his -rushing upon me without warning. He was, as I think I said, a very -sturdy figure of a man, though not tall; and he gave sign of courage -enough in his angry little eyes and jutting chin. A side glance at -Nicole showed me that he was pleased with the turn of affairs, and had -small love for the stranger. I caught at the doorway the faces of the -two men from the out-settlements, with eyes and ears all agog. - -The stranger gulped down his rage and set himself to ape my coolness. - -“Whatever your business with my captain,” said he, “we are here now as -private gentlemen, and you must give me satisfaction. Be good enough to -draw, monsieur.” - -Now, I was embarrassed and annoyed by this encounter, for I certainly -could not fight one of Vaurin’s crew, and I was in haste to see Father -Fafard. I cursed my folly in having been led into such an unworthy -altercation. How most quickly should I get out of it? - -“I am a captain in the king’s service,” said I abruptly, “and I cannot -cross swords but with a gentleman.” - -The fellow spluttered in a fine fury, more or less assumed, I must -believe. His oaths were of a sort which grated me, but having delivered -himself of them he said: - -“I too serve the king. And I too, I’d have you know, am a gentleman. -None of your Canadian half-breed seigneurs, but a gentleman of Gascony. -Out with your sword, or I spit you!” - -“I’m very sorry,” I answered smoothly, “that I cannot fight with one of -Vaurin’s cut-throats, for I perceive you to be a stout-hearted rascal -who might give me a good bout. But as for the gentleman of Gascony, -faith, my credulity will not stand so great a tax. From your accents, -Monsieur, I could almost name the particular sty by the Bordeaux -waterside which must claim the distinction of your birth.” - -As I had calculated, this insult brought it. My prod had struck the raw. -With a choking curse the fellow sprang at me, naked handed, blind in his -bull strength. - -I dropped one foot to the rear, met and stopped the rush by planting my -left fist in his face, then gave him my right under his jaw, with the -full thrust of my body, from the foot up. It was a beautiful trick, -learned of an English prisoner at Montreal, who had trained me all one -winter in the fistic art of his countrymen. My impetuous antagonist went -backward over the anvil, and seemed in small haste to pick himself up. -The spectators gaped at the strange tactics; and Nicole, as I bade him -good-by, chuckled: - -“There’ll be trouble for this somewhere, Master Paul! Watch out -sharp—and don’t go ‘round o’ nights without taking me along. Le Fûret is -not nicknamed ‘The Ferret’ for nothing!” - -“All right, my friend,” said I; “when I want a guard I’ll send for you.” - -I went off toward Father Fafard’s, pleased with myself, pleased with the -English captain who had taught me such a useful accomplishment, and -pleased, I confess, with Vaurin’s minion for having afforded me such a -fair chance to display it. - - - - - Chapter XI - - Father Fafard - - -The incident at the forge, as it seemed to me, was one to scatter -effectually any rumours of my connection with Vaurin, and I -congratulated myself most heartily upon it. It could not fail, I -thought, to look well in Yvonne’s eyes. It confirmed me in my resolve to -go to Canard that afternoon, and perhaps to Pereau, getting my uncle’s -business off my hands, and not returning to De Lamourie Place till I -might be sure that the circumstances had been heard and well digested -there. Having this course settled in my mind, I passed the church, -entered the gate between its flowering lilac-bushes, and hastened up the -narrow path to Father Fafard’s door. Ere I could reach it the good -priest stood upon his threshold to greet me, both hands out, his kind -grey eyes half closed by the crowding smiles that creased his round and -ruddy face. - -“My boy!” he said. “I have looked for you all the morning. Why didn’t -you come to me last night?” - -His voice, big, yet low and soft, had ever quaintly reminded me of a -ripe apple in its mellow firmness. - -Both hands in his, I answered, bantering him: - -“But, father, the church gave me work to do last night. Could I neglect -that? I had to see that the Reverend Father La Garne did not turn aside -from his sacred ministrations to burn down the houses of my friends.” - -The kind face grew grave and stern. - -“I know! I know!” he said. “This land of Acadie is in an evil case. But -come, let us eat, and talk afterwards. I have waited for you far past my -hour.” - -He turned into his little dining-room, a very plainly furnished closet -off the kitchen. - -I was hungry, so for a space there was no talk, while the fried chicken -and barley cakes which the brown old housekeeper set before us made -rapid disappearance. Then came sweet curds with thick cream, and sugar -of the maple grated over them,—a dish of which delectable memories had -clung to me from boyhood. This savory and wholesome meal done, Father -Fafard brought out some dark-red West Indian rum which smelled most -pleasantly. As he poured it for me he tapped the bottle and said: - -“This comes to us by way of Boston. These English have an excellent -judgment in liquor, Paul. It is one of our small compensations.” - -I laughed, thinking of the scant concern it was to Father Fafard, ever, -for all his fineness of palate, one of the most abstemious of men. As we -sat at ease and sipped the brew he said: - -“I hear you faced down the Black Abbé last night, and fairly drove him -off the field.” - -“I had that satisfaction,” said I, striving to look modest over it. - -“He gave way to you, the Black Abbé himself, who browbeats the -commandant at Beauséjour, and fears no man living,—unless it be that mad -heretic Grûl, perchance! And he yielded to your authority, my boy? How -do you account for the miracle?” - -Now it had not hitherto seemed to me so much of a miracle, and I was a -shade nettled that it should seem one to others. I was used to -controlling violent men, and why not meddling priests? - -“I suppose he saw I meant it. Perhaps he respected the king’s -commission. I know not,” said I with indifference. - -Father Fafard smiled dryly. - -“I grant,” said he, “that you are a hard man to cross, Paul, for all -your graciousness. But La Garne would risk that, or anything; and he -cares for the king’s commission only when it suits him to care for it. -Oh, no! If he gave way to you he believed you were doing his work, and -he would not interfere. What _is_ your errand to Acadie, Paul?” he -added, suddenly leaning forward and searching my face. - -I felt myself flush with indignation, and half rose from my seat. Then I -remembered that he knew nothing of my reasons for coming, and that his -question was but natural. This cooled me. But I looked him reproachfully -in the eyes. - -“Do _you_ think me a conspirator and a companion of cut-throats?” I -asked. “I have no public business to bring me here to Grand Pré, father. -I got short leave from my general, my first in two years, and I have -come to Acadie for my own pleasure and for no reason else. My word!” - -He leaned back with an air of relief. - -“It is, of course, enough, Paul,” said he heartily. “But in these bad -days one knows not what to expect, nor whence the bolt may fall. There -is distrust on all sides. As for my unhappy people, they are like to be -ground to dust between the upper stone of England and the lower stone of -France.” He sighed heavily, looking out upon his dooryard lilacs as if -he thought to bid them soon farewell. Then the kindly glance came back -into his eyes, and he turned them again upon me. - -“But why,” he inquired, “did you go first to Monsieur de Lamourie’s, -instead of coming, as of old, at once to me?” - -I hesitated; then decided to speak frankly, so far as might seem -fitting. - -“Grûl warned me,” said I, “that Mademoiselle de Lamourie was in danger. -I dared not delay.” - -“Why she in especial?” he persisted, gravely teasing, as was his right -and custom. “Were not monsieur and madame in like peril of the good -abbé’s hand?” - -“It was her peril that most concerned me,” I said bluntly. - -He studied my face, and then, I suppose, read my heart, which I made no -effort to veil. The smile went from his lips. - -“I fear you love the girl, Paul,” said he very gently. “I am sorry for -you, more sorry than I can say. But you are too late. Were you told -about the Englishman?” - -“I met him,” said I, with a voice less steady than I desired it to be, -for my heart was straightway in insurrection at the topic. “Madame told -me, incidentally. But it is _not_ too late, father! I may call it so -when she is dead, or I.” - -“It is your hurt that speaks in haste,” said he rebukingly. “But you -know you are wrong, and such words idle. Indeed, my dear, dear boy, I -would you had her, not he. But her troth is solemnly plighted, and he is -a good man and fair to look at; though I like him not over well. As he -was a Protestant, I long stood out against him; but Giles de Lamourie is -now half English at heart, and Yvonne is wilful. Why were you not here -to help me a half year back, my boy?” - -“Ay! why not?” I exclaimed bitterly, gripping my pewter mug till it lost -all semblance of a mug. “And why was I a fool, a blind, blind dolt, when -I _was_ here, two years back? But I am here now. And you shall see I am -not too late!” - -“You speak rashly, Paul,” said he, with a trace of sternness. “You may -be sure, however much I love you, I will not help you now in your wicked -purpose. Would you make her false to her word?” - -“Her word was false to her heart, that I know,” said I. “Better be false -for a little than for a lifetime, and two lives made as one death for -it.” - -The round, kindly face smiled ironically at the passion which had crept -into my voice. - -“You speak now as a poet, I think, Paul,” said he. “I suppose I must -allow for some hyperbole and not be too much alarmed at your passion. -Yet I must confess you seem to me too old for this child-talk of life -and death, as if they were both compassed in a woman’s loving or not -loving.” - -“I speak with all sobriety, father,” said I, “and I speak of that which -I know. Forgive me if I suggest that you do less.” - -The priest’s eyes shaded as with sorrowful remembrance, and he looked -out across the apple-trees as he answered: - -“You think I have always been a priest,” said he; “that I have always -dwelt where the passions and pains of earth can touch me only as -reflected from the hearts of others—the hearts into which I look as into -a mirror. How should I understand what I see in such a mirror, if I had -not myself once known these things that make storm in man’s life? I have -loved, Paul.” - -“How much?” I asked. - -“Enough,” said he, “to lose her for her own good. I was a poor student -with no prospects. She was beautiful and good, and her duty to her -family required that she should marry as they wished. I had no right to -her. I could not have her. For her love I vowed to live single—and I -have come to know that the love of a woman is but one small part of -life.” - -“Plainly,” said I, watching him with interest, “there was no resistless -compulsion in that love. But you are right; of most lives love is but an -accident, the plaything of propinquity. It dimly feels its -insignificance in the face of serious affairs, and gives place, as it -should. But there is a love which is different. Few, indeed, are they -who are born to endure the light of its uncovered face; but all have -heard the dim tradition of it. I cannot make you understand it, father, -any more than I could teach a blind man the wonder of that radiating -blue up there. That old half-knowledge of yours has sealed your eyes -more closely than if you had never known at all. I can only tell you -there is a love to which life and death must serve as lackeys.” - -As he listened, first astonishment marked his face; for never before had -I spoken to him save as a boy to his trusted master. Then indignation -struggled with solicitude. Then he seemed to remember that I was not a -boy, but a man well hardened in the school of stern experience. -Therefore he seemed to decide that I must be treated with mild banter. -He lay back in his chair, folded his well-kept hands on his ample -stomach, and chuckled indulgently before replying. - -“The fever is upon you, Paul,” said he. “Poet and peasant alike must -have it. In this form it is not often more dangerous or more lasting -than measles; but unlike measles, alas, one attack grants no immunity -from another!” - -I loved him well, and his jibes stung me not at all. I fell comfortably -into his mood. - -“A frontier fighter must be his own physician,” I said lightly. “You -shall see how I will medicine this fever.” - -“I will trust Yvonne de Lamourie’s plighted word,” he said gravely, -after a pause of some moments. Then a wave of strong feeling went over -his face, and he broke out with a passion in his voice: - -“Paul, do not misjudge me. I love you as my own son, and there is no one -else in the world whom I love as I love Yvonne de Lamourie. Not her own -father can love her as I do, a lonely old man to whom her face is more -than sunshine. Do I not desire with all my heart that you should have -her—you whom I trust, you whom I know to be a true son of the church? -But as I must tell you again, though it grieves me to say it, you have -come too late. The Englishman’s faithful and unselfish devotion has won -her promise. She will keep it, and she will bring him into the church. -Moreover, she owes him more than she can ever repay. Giles de Lamourie -has long been under the suspicion of the English government, who accused -him, unjustly, of having had a hand in the massacre of the New -Englanders here. His estates were on the very verge of confiscation; but -Anderson saved him and made him secure. That there is some dreadful fate -even now hanging over this fair land I feel assured. What it may be I -dare not guess; but in the hour of ruin George Anderson will see that -the house of De Lamourie stands unscathed. For, Paul, I know that Heaven -is with the English in this quarrel. Our iniquity in high places has not -escaped unseen.” - -“Grûl’s prophecy touches even you,” I remarked, rising. “But I must go, -father. I have errands across the dyke, for my uncle; and I would be -back for the night, if possible, to ease the fears of Monsieur de -Lamourie. And as for _her_—be assured I will use none but fair means in -the great venture of my life.” - -“I am assured of it, Paul,” said he, grasping my outstretched hand with -all affection. “And I am assured, too, that you will utterly and -irremediably fail. Therefore I am the less troubled, my dear boy, though -my heart is sore enough for you.” - -“I can but thank God,” I retorted cheerfully, retreating down the path -between the lilacs, “that the offices of priest and prophet do sometimes -exist apart.” - -As I looked back at him, before turning down the lane, his kind, round, -ruddy face was puckered solicitously over a problem which grew but the -harder as he pondered it. - - - - - Chapter XII - - Le Fûret at the Ferry - - -From the curé’s I cut across the fields to escape further delay, and so, -avoiding the westerly skirts of the village, came out upon the Canard -trail. I made the utmost haste, for the afternoon was already on the -wane. For some three miles beyond the village the road runs through a -piece of old woods, mostly of beech, birch, and maple, whose young -greenery exhaled a most pleasant smell on the fresh June air. By the -wayside grew the flowers of later spring, purple wake-robins, the pink -and white wild honeysuckle, the solitary painted triangle of the -trillium, and the tender pink bells of the linnæa, revealed by their -perfume. Once I frightened a scurrying covey of young partridges. As for -the squirrels, chipmunks, and rabbits, so pert were they in their -fearless curiosity that I was ready to pretend they were the same as -those which of old in my boyish vagabondings I had taught to be unafraid -of my approach. With the one half of my soul I was a boy again, -retraversing these dear familiar woods; the other half of me, meanwhile, -was bowed with a presentiment of disaster. The confidence in the -priest’s tone still thrilled me with fear. But under whatever -alternations of hope and despair, deep down in my heart where the great -resolves take form deliberately my purpose settled into the shape which -does not change. By the time I emerged from the wood I was ready to -laugh at Father Fafard or anyone else who should tell me that success -would not be mine at the last. - -“She may not know it yet herself, but she is mine,” I declared to the -open marshes, as I set foot out upon the raised way which led over to -the Habitants Ferry. - -The ferry-boat which crosses the deep and turbid tide of the Habitants -is a clumsy scow propelled by a single oar thrust out from the stern. -The river is hardly passable save for an hour on either side of full -flood. The rest of the time it is a shrinking yet ever-turbulent stream -which roars along between precipitous banks of red engulfing slime. When -I reached the shore of this unstable water it lacked but a few minutes -of flood. The scow was just putting off for the opposite shore, with one -passenger. I recognized the ferryman, yellow Ba’tiste Chouan, ever a -friend to me in the dear old days. I shouted for him to wait. - -The scow was already some half score feet from land, but Ba’tiste, -seeing the prospect of more silver, stopped and made as if to turn back. -At once, however, his passenger interfered, with vehement gestures, and -eager speech which I could not hear. Eying him closely, I perceived that -it was none other than that ruffian of Vaurin’s whom I had so -incontinently discomfited at the forge. His haste I could now well -understand, and I saw him urging it with such effective silvern argument -that Ba’tiste began to yield. - -“Ba’tiste,” I cried sharply, “don’t you know me? Take a good look at me; -my haste is urgent.” - -My voice caught him. “_Tiens!_ It’s Master Paul,” he cried, and -straightway thrust back to shore, calmly ignoring threats and bribes -alike. - -As I sprang aboard and grasped Ba’tiste’s gaunt claw I expected nothing -less than a second bout with my adversary of the morning. But he, while -I talked with the ferryman of this and that, according to the wont of -old acquaintances long apart, kept a discreet silence at the other end -of the scow, where, as I casually noted, he stood with folded arms -looking out over the water. A scarlet feather stuck foppishly in his -dark cap became him very well; and I could not but account him a proper -figure of a man, though somewhat short. - -Presently, at a pause in our talk, he turned and approached us. To my -astonishment he wore a civil smile. - -“I was in the wrong this morning, Monsieur Grande,” he said, in a -hearty, frank voice such as I like, though well I know it is no -certificate of an honest heart. “I interfered in a gentleman’s private -business; and though your rebuke was something more sharp than I could -have wished, I deserved it. Allow me to make my apologies.” - -Now it is one of my weaknesses that I can scarce resist the devil -himself if he speaks me fair and seeks to make amends. - -“Well,” said I reluctantly, “we will forget the incident, monsieur, if -it please you. I cannot but honour a brave man always; and you could not -but speak up for your captain, he not being by to speak for himself. My -opinion of him I will keep behind my teeth out of deference to your -presence.” - -“That’s fair, monsieur,” said he, apparently quite content. “And I will -keep my nose out of another gentleman’s business. My way lies to Canard. -May I hope for the honour of your company on the road—since fate, -however rudely, has thrown us together?” - -Another weakness of mine is to be uselessly frank—to resent even politic -concealment. Here was one whom I knew for an enemy. I spoke him the -plain truth with a childish carelessness. - -“I have affairs both at Canard and at Pereau,” said I. “But I know not -if I shall get so far as the latter to-night.” - -“Ah!” said he, “I might have known as much. Father La Garne will lie at -Pereau to-night, and I am to meet Captain Vaurin there.” - -I turned upon him fiercely, but his face was so devoid of malice that my -resentment somehow stuck in my throat. Seeing it in my face, however, he -made haste to apologize. - -“Pardon me, monsieur, if I imply too much, or again trespass upon your -private matters,” he exclaimed courteously. “But you will surely allow -that, in view of your late visit to Piziquid, my mistake is a not -unnatural one.” - -I was forced to acknowledge the justice of this. - -“But be pleased to remember that it is none the less a mistake,” said I -with emphasis, “and one that is peculiarly distasteful to me.” - -“Assuredly, monsieur,” he assented most civilly. And by this we were at -the landing. As we stepped off I turned for a final word with Ba’tiste; -and he, while giving me account of a new road to the Canard, shorter -than the old trail, managed to convey a whispered warning that my -companion was not to be trusted. - -“It is Le Fûret,” he said, as if that explained. - -“That’s all right, my friend,” I laughed confidently. “I know all about -that.” - -Then I turned up the new road, striding amicably by the side of my late -antagonist, and busily wondering how I was to be rid of him without a -rudeness. - -But I might have spared myself this foolish solicitude; for presently, -coming to a little lane which led up to a fair house behind some -willows, he remarked: - -“I will call here, monsieur, while you are visiting at Machault’s -yonder; and will join you, if I may, the other side of the pasture.” - -With the word he had bowed himself off, leaving me wondering mightily -how he knew I was bound for Simon Machault’s—as in truth I was, on -matters pertaining to my uncle’s rents. I was sure I had made no mention -of Machault, and I was nettled that the fellow should so appear to -divine my affairs. I made up my mind to question him sharply on the -matter when he should rejoin me. - -But I was to see no more of him that day. After a pleasant interview -with Machault, whence I departed with my pockets the heavier for some -rentals paid ungrudgingly to the Sieur de Briart, I continued my way -alone, my mind altogether at ease as to the house of De Lamourie, since -I had learned that the Black Abbé and the blacker Vaurin would lie that -night at Pereau. Then suddenly, as I was about to turn into the yard of -another farmhouse, one of those strange things happened which we puzzle -over for a time and afterward set down among the unaccountable. Some -force, within or without, turned me sharp about and faced me back toward -Grand Pré. Before I realized at all what I was up to, I was retracing my -steps toward the ferry. But with an effort I stopped to take counsel -with myself. - - - - - Chapter XIII - - Unwilling to be Wise - - -At first I was for mocking and laughing down so blind a propulsion, but -then the thought that it was in some sort an outward expression of my -great desire for Yvonne compelled me to take it with sobriety. Possibly, -indeed, it meant that she was thinking of me, needing me even, at the -moment; and at this I sprang forward in fierce haste lest I should be -too late for the ferry. I was not going to follow blindly an impulse -which I could not quite comprehend. I would not be a plaything of whims -and vapours. But I would so far yield as to get safely upon the Grand -Pré side of the river, pay a visit or two there which I had intended -deferring to next day, and return to De Lamourie’s about bed-time, too -late to invite another rebuff from Yvonne. This compromise gave me peace -of mind, but did not delay my pace. I was back at the ferry in a few -minutes, in time to see old yellow Ba’tiste fastening up the scow as a -sign that ferrying was over till next tide. - -I rushed down to him with a vehemence which left no need of words. -Dashing through the waterside strip of red and glistening mud I sprang -upon the scow, and cried: - -“If ever you loved me, Ba’tiste,—if ever you loved my father before -me,—one more trip! I must be in Grand Pré to-night if I have to swim!” - -His lean, yellow, weather-tanned face wrinkled shrewdly, and he cast off -again without a moment’s hesitation, saying heartily as he did so: - -“If it only depended on what _I_ could do for you, Master Paul, your -will and your way would right soon meet.” - -“I always knew I could count on you, Ba’tiste,” said I warmly, watching -with satisfaction the tawny breadth of water widen out between the shore -and the rear of the scow, as the ferryman strained rhythmically upon the -great oar. I sniffed deep breaths of the cool, contenting air which blew -with a salty bitterness from the uncovering flats; and I dimly imagined -then what now I know, that when the breath of the tide flats has got -into one’s veins at birth he must make frequent return to them in -after-life, or his strength will languish. - -“So you got wind, Master Paul, of Le Fûret’s return, and thought well to -keep on his track, eh?” panted Ba’tiste. - -“What do you mean?” I asked, awakened from my reverie. - -“Didn’t you know he came right back, as soon as he give you the slip?” -asked Ba’tiste. “I ferried him over again not an hour gone.” - -“Why,” I cried in surprise, “I thought he was on his way to the Black -Abbé!” - -Ba’tiste smiled wisely. - -“He lied!” said he. “You don’t know that lot yet, Master Paul. I saw you -listened careless-like, but I thought you knew that was all lies about -the Black Abbé and Vaurin being at Pereau. If they’d been at Pereau ‘The -Ferret’ would ha’ said they were at Piziquid.” - -“I’m an ass!” I exclaimed bitterly. - -Ba’tiste laughed. - -“That’s not the name you get hereabouts, Master Paul. But I reckon -you’ve been used to dealing with honest men.” - -“I believe I do trust too easily, my friend,” said I. “But one thing I -know, and that is this: I will make never a mistake in trusting you, and -some other faithful friends whom I might name.” - -This seemed to Ba’tiste too obvious to need reply, so he merely wished -me good fortune as I sprang ashore and made haste up the trail. - -I made haste—but alas, not back toward Grand Pré! In the bitter -after-days I had leisure to curse the obstinate folly which led me to -carry out my plan of delay instead of hurrying straight to Yvonne’s -side. But I had made up my mind that the best time to return to De -Lamourie’s was about the end of evening—and my dull wits failed to see -in Le Fûret’s action any sufficient cause to change my plans. It never -occurred to me, conceited fool that I was, that the causes which had -swayed the Black Abbé to my will the night before might in the meantime -have ceased to work. Even had this idea succeeded in penetrating my -thick apprehension, I suppose it would have made no difference. I should -have felt sure that the abbé’s scoundrel crew would choose none but the -dim hours after midnight for anything their malice might intend. The -fact is, I had been yielding to inauthoritative impulses and vague -premonitions till the reaction had set in, determining me to be at all -costs coolly reasonable. Now Fortune with her fine irony loves to -emphasize the fact that the slave of reason often proves the most -pitiable of fools. Such was I when I turned to my right from the ferry, -and strode through the scented, leafy dusk to the open flax-fields of -the Le Marchand settlement, though the disregarded monitor within me was -urging that I should turn to the left, through the old beech woods, to -Grand Pré—and Yvonne. - -The Le Marchand settlement in those days consisted of six little farms, -each with its strip of upland flax-field and apple-orchard, and a bit of -rich, secluded dyke held in common. All the Le Marchands—father and five -sons—still owned their hereditary allegiance to the Sieur de Briart, and -paid him their little rents as occasion offered. My welcome was not such -as is commonly accorded to the tax-gatherer. These retainers of my -uncle’s made me feel that I was myself their seigneur; and their rents, -paid voluntarily and upon their own reckonings, were in effect a -love-gift. I supped—chiefly upon buckwheat cakes—at the cottage of Le -Marchand _père_, and then, dark having fallen softly upon the quiet -fields, I set out at a gentle pace for Grand Pré village. - -Soon after I got into the still dark of the woods the moon rose clear of -the Gaspereau hills, and thrust long white fingers toward me through the -leafage. The silence and the pale, elusive lights presently got a grip -upon my mood, and my anxieties doubled, and trebled, and crowded upon -each other, till I found myself walking at a breathless pace, just the -hither side of a run. I stopped short, with a laugh of vexation, and -forced myself to go moderately. - -I was perhaps half way to Grand Pré, and in the deepest gloom of the -woods,—a little dip where scarce a moonbeam came,—when, with a -suddenness that gave even my seasoned nerves a start, a tall figure -stood noiselessly before me. - -I clapped my hand upon my sword and asked angrily: - -“Who are you?” - -But even as I spoke I knew the apparition for Grûl. I laughed, and -exclaimed: - -“Pardon me, Mysterious One. And pray tell me why you are come, for I am -in some haste!” - -“Haste?” he reëchoed, with biting scorn. “Where was your haste two hours -ago? Fool, poor fool, staying to fill your belly and wag your chin with -the clod-hoppers! You are even now too late.” - -“Too late for what?” I asked blankly, shaken with a nameless fear. - -“Come and see!” was the curt answer; and he led the way forward to a -little knoll, whence, the trees having fallen apart, could be had a view -of Grand Pré. - -There was a red light wavering at the back of the village, and against -it the gables stood out blackly. - -“I think you promised to guard that house!” said Grûl. - -But I had no answer. With a cry of rage and horror I was away, running -at the top of my speed. The Abbé’s stroke had fallen; and I—with a -sickness that clutched my heart—saw that my absence might well be set -down to treachery. - - - - - Chapter XIV - - Love Me, Love my Dog - - -As I emerged from the woods I noted that the glare was greater than -before. But before I reached the outskirts of the village it had begun -to die down. My wild running up the main street attracted no -attention—every one able to be about was at the fire. - -I have no doubt that I was not long in covering those two miles from the -western end of the village to the De Lamourie farm—but to me they seemed -leagues of torment. At last I reached the gate, and dashed panting up -the lane. - -I saw that the house was already in ruins, though still burning with a -fierce glow. I saw also, and wondered at it, that there had been no -attempt made to quench the flames. There were no water buckets in view; -there was no confusion of household goods as when willing hands throng -to help; and the outbuildings, which might easily have been saved, were -only now getting fairly into blaze. Across my confusion and pain there -flashed a sense of the Black Abbé’s power. This fire was his doing—and -none dared interfere to mitigate the stroke lest the like should fall -upon them also. My eyes searched the mass of staring, redly lit faces, -expecting to find some one of the De Lamourie household; but in vain. -Presently I noticed that every one made way for me with an alacrity too -prompt for mere respect; and I grew dully conscious that I was an object -of shrinking aversion to my old fellow-villagers. My rage at the villain -priest began to turn upon these misjudging fools. But I knew not what to -say; I knew not what to do. I pushed roughly hither and thither, -demanding information, but getting only vague and muttered replies. - -“Where are they?” I asked again and again, and broke out cursing -furiously; but every one I spoke to evaded a direct answer. - -“Have that arch fiend and his red devils carried them off?” I asked at -last; and to this I got hushed, astonished, terrified replies of— - -“No, monsieur!” and, “No indeed, monsieur! They have escaped!” and, “Oh, -but no, monsieur!” - -Flinging myself fiercely away from the crowd, I rushed to look into a -detached two-story outbuilding which had but now got fairly burning. I -wondered if there were no stuff in it which I might rescue. The smoke -and flame were pouring so hotly from the door that I could not see what -was inside. But as I peered in, my face shaded with my hand from the -scorching glare, I heard a faint, pitiful mewing just above me, and -looked up. - -There, on the sill of a window of the second story, a window from which -came volumes of smoke, but of flame only a slender, darting tongue, -crouched a white kitten. With a curious gripping at my heart I -recognized it as one which I had seen playing at Yvonne’s feet the -evening before. I remembered how it was forever pouncing with wild glee -upon the tip of her little slipper, forever being gently rolled over and -tickled into fresh ecstasies. The scene cut itself upon my brain as I -ran for a yet undamaged ladder, which I noticed leaning against a shed -near by. - -The action doubtless filled the crowd with amazement, but no one raised -a hand to help me. The ladder was long and very awkward to manage, but -in little more than the time it takes to tell of it I got it up beside -the window and sprang to the rescue. By this time, however, the flames -were spouting forth. The moment I came within reach of it the little -animal leapt upon me and clung with frantic claws. A vivid sheet of -flame burst out in my very face, hurling me from the ladder; yet I -succeeded in alighting on my feet, jarred, but whole. There was a smell -of burnt hair in my nostrils, and I saw that the kitten’s coat, no -longer white, was finely crisped. But what I smelt was not all kitten’s -hair. Lifting my hand to my bitterly smarting face, I found my own -locks, over my forehead, seriously diminished, while my once fairly -abundant eyebrows and eyelashes were clean gone. My moustache, however, -had escaped—and even at that moment, when my mind was surely well -occupied with matters of importance, I could feel a thrill of -satisfaction. A man’s vanity is liable to assert itself at almost any -crisis; and it did not occur to me that a man lacking eyebrows and -eyelashes could not hope to be redeemed from the ridiculous by the most -luxuriant moustache that ever grew. - -Half dazed, I stared about me, wondering what was next to be done. -Suddenly I thought—“Why, of course; they have gone to Father Fafard’s!” - -The kitten clung to me, mewing piteously, and I was embarrassed by it. -First I dropped it into a large currant bush, where, as I thought, it -would not be trodden upon. Then, remembering that it was Yvonne’s, I -snatched it up, and with a grim laugh at the folly of my solicitude over -so small a matter strode off with it toward the parsonage. I passed in -front of the swaying crowd; and some one, out of sight, tittered. I had -begun to forget the fool rabble of villagers,—to regard them as a -painted mob in a picture, or as wooden puppets,—but their reality was -borne back upon me at that giggle. I walked on, scowling upon the faces -which shrank into gravity under my eye, till at last I noticed a -kind-looking girl. Into her arms, without ceremony, I thrust the little -animal; and as she took it I said: - -“It belongs to Mademoiselle de Lamourie. Take care of it for her.” - -Not waiting to hear her answer, I was off across the fields for the -parsonage. - - - - - Chapter XV - - Ashes as it were Bread - - -All this had come and gone as it were in a dream, and it seemed to me -that I yet panted from my long race. I had seen nothing, meanwhile, of -the Black Abbé or of his painted pack. Spies, however, he had doubtless -in plenty among those gaping onlookers; and his devilish work yet -lighted me effectually on my way across the wet fields. The glow was -like great patches of blood upon the apple-trees, where the masses of -bloom fairly fronted the light. The hedgerow thickets took on a ruddy -bronze, a sparkle here and there as a wet leaf set the unwonted rays -rebounding. The shadows were sharply black, and strangely misleading -when they found themselves at odds with those cast by the moon. The -scene, as I hastened over the quiet back lots, was like the unreal -phantasmagoria of a dream. I found myself playing with the idea that it -all _was_ a dream, from my meeting with old Mother Pêche here—yes, in -this very field—the night before to the present breathless haste and -wild surmising. Then the whole bitter reality seemed to topple over, and -fall upon me and crush me down. Not only was Yvonne pledged to another, -but through grossest over-confidence I had failed her in her need, and -worst of all, the thought that made my heart beat shakingly, she -believed me a traitor. It forced a groan to my lips, but I ran on, and -presently emerged upon the lane a few paces from Father Fafard’s gate. - -As I turned in the good priest came and stood in the doorway, peering -down the lane with anxious eyes. Seeing me, he sprang forward and began -to speak, but I interrupted him, crying: - -“Are they here? I must see them.” - -“They will not see you, Paul. They would curse you and shut their ears. -They believe _you_ did it.” - -“But you, father, _you_,” I pleaded, “can undeceive them. Come with me.” -And I grasped him vehemently by the arm. - -But he shook me off, with a sort of anxious impatience. - -“Of course, Paul, I _know_ you did not do it. I _know_ you, as _she_ -would, too, if she loved you,” he cried, in a voice made high and thin -by excitement. “I will tell them you are true. But—where is Yvonne?” And -he pushed past me to the gate, where he paused irresolutely. - -“Don’t tell me she is not with you!” I cried. - -“She ran out a minute ago, not telling us what she was going to do,” he -answered. - -“But what for? What made her? She must have had some reason! What was -it?” I demanded, becoming cold and stern as I noted how his nerves were -shaken. - -He collected himself with a visible effort, and then looked at me with a -kind of slow pity. - -“I had but now come in,” said he, “and thoughtlessly I told Madame a -word just caught in the crowd. You know that evil savage, Etienne le -Bâtard. Or you don’t, I see; but he’s the red right-hand of La Garne, -and it was he executed yonder outrage. As he was leading his cut-throats -away in haste, plainly upon another malignant enterprise, I heard him -tell one of my parishioners what he would do. The man is suspected of a -leaning to the English; and the savage said to him with significance: - -“I go now to Kenneticook, to the yellow-haired English Anderson. Neither -he nor his house will see another sun. - -“I had thought perhaps you were right, Paul, and that Yvonne had -promised herself to the Englishman more in esteem than love; but she -cried out, with a piteous, shaken voice, that he must be warned—that -some one _must_ go to him and save him. With that she rushed from the -house, and we have not seen her since. But stay—what have _you_ said or -done to her, Paul? Now that I see her face again, I see remorse in it. -What have you done to her?” - -I made no answer to this sharp question, it being irrelevant and my -haste urgent. But I demanded: - -“Where could she go for help?” - -“I don’t know,” he answered, “unless, perhaps, to the landing.” - -“The tide is pretty low,” said I, pondering, “but the wind serves well -enough for the Piziquid mouth. Where do you suppose the savages left -their canoes?” - -“Oh,” said he positively, “well up on the Piziquid shore, without doubt. -They came over on the upper trail, and they must be now hurrying back -the same way. They cannot get up the Kenneticook, by that route, till a -little before dawn.” - -“I have time, then!” I exclaimed, and rushed away. - -“Where are you going? Paul! Paul! What will you do?” he cried after me. - -“I will save him!” I shouted as I went. “Come you down to the landing, -the Gaspereau wharf, and get Yvonne if she’s there.” - -Glancing back, I saw that he followed me. - -My heart was surging with gratitude to God for this chance. I vowed to -save Anderson, though it cost me my own life. If Yvonne loved him she -should then owe her happiness to me. If she did not love him she would -see that I was quite other than the traitor she imagined. Strange to -say, I felt no bitterness against her for so misjudging me. It seemed to -me that my folly had been so great that I had deserved to be misjudged. -But now, here was my opportunity. I swore under my breath that it should -not slip from my grasp. - -It was a good two-thirds of a mile from the parsonage to the wharf, and -I had time to scheme as I ran. I thought at once of Nicole, the -smith,—of his boat, and his brawn, and his loyal fidelity. His boat -would assuredly be at the wharf, but where should I find his brawn and -his fidelity? - -At his cottage, beside the forge, I stopped to ask for him. - -“At the fire, monsieur,” quavered his old mother, poking a troubled face -from the window in answer to my thundering on the door. “What would you -with him? Do not lead him into harm, Master Paul!” - -But I was off without answering; and the poor, creaking, worried old -voice followed in my ears: - -“He takes no sides. He hurts no one, Master Paul!” - -Passing the De Lamourie gate I paused to shout at the height of my -lungs: - -“Nicole! Nicole Brun! I want you! Nicole! Nicole!” - -“Coming, Master Paul!” was the prompt reply, out of the heart of the -crowd; and in a moment the active, thick-set form appeared, bareheaded -as usual, for I had never known Nicole to cover his black shock with cap -or hat. - -I was leaning on the fence to get my breath. - -“You were there, Nicole, when I was looking for a friend?” said I, eying -him with sharp question and reproach as he came up. - -“You did not seem to need any one just then, Master Paul; leastwise, no -one that was thereabouts,” he answered, with a sheepish mixture of -bantering and apology. - -I ignored both. I knew him to be true. - -“Will you come with me, right now, Nicole Brun?” I asked, starting off -again toward the river. - -“You know I will, Master Paul,” said he, close at my side. “But where? -What are we up to?” - -“The boat!” said I. “The wind serves. I’m going to the Kenneticook to -warn Anderson that the Black Abbé is to cut his throat this night!” - -I turned and looked him in the eyes as I spoke. - -His long, determined upper lip drew down at my words, but his little -grey eyes flashed upon mine a half-resigned, half-humorous acquiescence. - -“It’s risky, Master Paul. And no good, like as not,” he answered. “We’ll -be just about in time to get our own throats slit, I’m thinking,—to say -nothing of the hair,” he added, rubbing his crown with rueful -apprehension. - -“Let me have your boat, and I go alone,” said I curtly. But I was sure -of him nevertheless. - -“I’m with you, sure, Master Paul, if you _will_ go,” he rejoined. “And -maybe it’s worth while to disturb his reverence’s plans, if it _be_ only -an Englishman that we’re taking so much trouble about.” - -“We must and shall save him, Nicole,” I said, as deliberately as my -panting breath would permit, “or I will die in the trying. He is -betrothed to Mademoiselle de Lamourie, you know.” - -“_I_ should say, rather, let him die for her, that a better man may live -for her,” he retorted shrewdly. “But as you will, Master Paul, of -course!” - -In the privacy of my own heart I thought extremely well of Nicole’s -discrimination; but I said nothing, for by this we were come to the -wharf; and I saw—Yvonne! - - - - - Chapter XVI - - The Way of a Maid - - -Almost to her side I came before she was aware of me, so intent she was -upon her purpose. Two men of the village, fishermen whom I knew, she had -summoned to her, and was passionately urging them to take her to -Kenneticook. But for all her beauty, her enthralling charm, they hung -back doggedly—being but dull clods, and in a shaking terror at the very -name of the Black Abbé. It passed my comprehension that they should have -any power at all when those wonderful eyes burned upon them. Never had I -seen her so beautiful as then, her face wild with entreaty, her -bewildering hair half fallen about her shoulders. A white, soft-falling -shawl, such as I had never before seen her wear, was flung about her, -and one little hand with its live, restless fingers clutched the fabric -closely to her throat, as if she had been disturbed at her toilet. - -I was about to interrupt her, for there was no moment to lose if I would -accomplish my purpose; but of a sudden she seemed to realize the -hopelessness of her effort to move these stolid fishermen. Flinging out -her arms with a gesture of bitterness and despair, she cried, pointing -to Nicole’s boat: - -“Push off the boat, you cowards, and I will go alone!” - -And turning upon the word she found herself face to face with me. - -Even in that light I could see her lips go ashen, and for a moment I -thought she would drop. I sprang to catch her, but she recovered, and -shrank in a kind of speechless fury from my touch. Then she found words -for me, dreadful words for me to hear: - -“Traitor! Assassin! Still _you_ to persecute and thwart me. It is _you_ -they fear. It is _you_ who plan the murder of that good and true -man—_you_ who will not let me go to warn him!” Then her voice broke into -a wilder, more beseeching tone: “Oh, if you have one spark of shame, -_remember_! Let them push off the boat; and let _me_ go, that I may try -to save him!” - -Her reproaches hurt me not, but what seemed her passion for him steadied -me and made me hard. - -“You are mad, mademoiselle!” I answered sternly. “I am going to save -him.” - -“As you have saved our house to-night!” she cried, with a laugh that -went through me like a sword. - -“I was outwitted by my enemies—and yours, mademoiselle. I go now to warn -him. Push down the boat, men. Haste! Haste!” I ordered, turning from -her. - -But she came close in front of me, her great eyes blazed up in my face, -and she cried, “You go to see that he does not escape your hate!” - -“Listen, mademoiselle,” I said sharply. “I swear to you by the mother of -God that you have utterly misjudged me! I am no traitor. I have been a -fool; or my sword would have been at your father’s side to-night. I -swear to you that I go now to expiate my mistake by saving your lover -for you.” - -The first wave of doubt as to my treason came into her eyes at this; but -her lips curled in bitter unbelief. Before she could speak, I went on: - -“I swear to you by—by the soul of my dead mother I will save George -Anderson or die fighting beside him! You shall have your lover,” I -added, as I stepped toward the boat, which was now fairly afloat on the -swirling current. Nicole was hoisting the sail, while one of the -fishermen held the boat’s prow. - -I think Yvonne’s heart believed me now, though her excited brain was as -yet but partially convinced, or even, perhaps, as I have sometimes dared -to think in the light of her later actions, another motive, quite -unrealized by herself, began to work obscurely at the roots of her being -as soon as she had admitted the first doubts as to my treachery. But not -even her own self-searching can unravel all the intricacies of a woman’s -motive. As I was about to step into the boat she passed me lightly as a -flower which the wind lifts and blows. She seated herself beside the -mast. - -“What folly is this, mademoiselle?” I asked angrily, pausing with my -hand upon the gunwale, and noticing the astonishment on Nicole’s face. - -Her mouth set itself obstinately as her eyes met mine. - -“I am going, too,” she said, “to see if you respect your mother’s soul.” - -“You cannot!” I cried. “You will ruin our only chance. We must run miles -through the woods after we land, if we are to get there ahead of La -Garne’s butchers. You could not stay alone at the boat”— - -“I can!” said she doggedly. - -“You could not keep up with us,” I went on, unheeding her interruption. -“And if we delayed for you we should be too late. Every moment you stay -us now may be the one to cost his life.” - -“I am going!” was all she said. - -I set my teeth into my lips. There was no alternative. Stepping quietly -into the boat as if forced to acquiesce in her decision, with my left -hand I caught both little white wrists as they lay crossed, still for a -moment, in her lap. I held them inexorably. At the same time I passed my -right arm about the slim body, and lifted it. There was but the flutter -of an instant’s struggle, its futility instantly recognized; and then, -stepping over the boatside with her, I carried her to the edge of the -wharf, set her softly down, sprang back into the boat, and pushed off as -I did so. - -“I will save him for you, mademoiselle,” I said, “and, believe me, I -have just now saved him _from_ you!” - -But she made no answer. She did not move from the place where I had set -her down. There was a strange look on her face, which I could not -fathom; but I carried it with me, treasured and uncomprehended, as the -boat slipped rapidly down the tide. - -As long as I could discern the wharf at all I could see that white form -moveless at its edge. I forgot my errand. I forgot her cruel distrust. I -strained my gaze upon her, and knew nothing save that I loved her. - - - - - Chapter XVII - - Memory is a Child - - -When I could no longer discern even the shore whence we had started, I -in a measure came to myself. Nicole—sagacious Nicole—had left me to my -dream. He had got up the mainsail and jib unaided, and now sat like a -statue at the tiller. We were in the open basin, running with a steady -wind abeam. There was quite a swell on, and the waves looked sinister, -cruel as steel, under the bare white moon. A fading glow still marked -the spot where the De Lamourie house had stood; but save for that there -was no hint of man’s hand in all the wild, empty, hissing, wonderful -open. Far to the left lay Blomidon, a crouching lion; and straight ahead -a low, square bluff guarded the mouth of the Piziquid. I saw that we -were nearing it rapidly, for Nicole’s boat had legs. Once in the -Piziquid mouth, we should have a hard run up against the ebb; but the -wind would then be right aft, and I felt that we could stem the current -and make our landing in time. - -“Will this wind carry her against the Piziquid tide?” I asked Nicole. It -was the first word spoken in perhaps an hour, and my voice sounded -strange to me. - -“We’ll catch the first of the flood soon after we get inside, Master -Paul,” said he, in the most matter-of-fact voice in the world. - -Content with this, and knowing that for the time there was nothing to do -but wait, I lapsed back into my reverie. - -I felt exhausted, not from bodily effort, but from emotion. My nerves -and brain felt sleepy; yet nothing was further from my eyes than sleep. -Situations and deeds, mental and physical crises, agonies and ecstasies -and dull despair, had so trodden upon one another’s heels that I was -breathless. I caught at my brain, as it were, to make it keep still long -enough to think. Yet I could not think to any purpose. I was aware of -nothing so keenly as the sensation that had intoxicated me as I held -Yvonne’s unconsenting body for those few moments in my arms, while -removing her from the boat. To have touched her at all against her will -seemed a sacrilege; but when a sacrilege has seemed a plain necessity I -have never been the one to balk at it. Now I found myself looking with a -foolish affection at the arms which had been guilty of that -sacrilege—and straightway, coming to my wits again, I glanced at Nicole -to see if he had divined the vast dimensions of my folly. - -From this I passed to wondering what was truly now my hope or my -despair. During all my talk with Yvonne—from the moment, indeed, when -Father Fafard had told me of her agitation over Anderson’s peril—I had -been as one without hope, in darkness utterly. Only a great love—_the_ -great love, as I had told myself—could inspire this desperate and daring -solicitude. And against the one great love, in such a woman as Yvonne, I -well knew that nothing earthly could prevail. My own bold resolution had -been formed on the theory that her betrothal was but the offspring of -expediency upon respect. Now, however, either the remembrance of her -touch deluded me or something in her attitude upon the wharf held -significance, for assuredly I began to dream that remorse rather than -love might have been the mainspring of her agitation; remorse, and pity, -and something of that strange mother passion which a true woman may feel -toward a man who stirs within her none of the lover passion at all. I -thought, too, of the wild sense of dishonour she must feel, believing me -a traitor and herself my dupe. Strange comfort this, of a surety! Yet I -grasped at it. I would prove her no dupe, myself no traitor; and stand -at last where I had stood before, with perhaps some advantage. And my -rival—he, I swore, should owe his life to me; a kind but cruel kind of -revenge. - -At last, my heart beating uncomfortably from the too swift self-chasing -of my thoughts, I stood up, shook myself, and looked about me. We had -rounded the bluff, and were standing up the broad Piziquid straight -before the wind; and the boat was pitching hotly in the short seas where -the wind thwarted the tide. I glanced at Nicole’s face. It was as -plaintively placid as if he dreamed of the days when he leaned at his -mother’s knee. - -But the expression of his countenance changed; for now, from out the -shadowed face of the bluff, came that bell-like, boding cry— - -“Woe, woe to Acadie the Fair, for the hour of her desolation is at -hand!” - -Nicole looked awed. - -“He knows, that Grûl!” he muttered. “It’s coming quick now, I’ll be -bound!” - -“Well, so are we, Nicole!” I rejoined cheerfully; “and that’s what most -concerns me at this moment.” - -I peered eagerly ahead, but could not, in that deluding light, -discriminate the mouth of the Kenneticook stream from its low adjacent -shores. Presently the waves and pitching lessened. The ebb had ceased, -and the near shore slipped by more rapidly. The slack of tide lasted but -a few minutes. Then the flood set in—noisily and with a great front of -foam, as it does in that river of high tides; and the good boat sped on -at a pace that augured accomplishment. In what seemed to me but a few -minutes the mouth of the Kenneticook opened, whitely glimmering, before -us. - -Barely had I descried it when Nicole put the helm up sharp and ran -straight in shore. - -“What are you doing, man?” I cried, in astonishment. “You’ll have us -aground!” - -But the words were not more than out of my mouth when I understood. I -saw the narrow entrance to a small creek, emptying between high banks. - -“Oh!” said I. “I beg your pardon, Nicole; I see you know what you’re -about all right!” - -He chuckled behind unsmiling lips. - -“_They’ll_ go up the Kenneticook in their canoes,” said he. “We’ll hide -the boat here, where they’ll not find it; and we’ll cut across the ridge -to the Englishman’s. Quicker, too!” - -The creek was narrow and winding, but deep for the first two hundred -yards of its course; and Nicole, he knew every turn and shallow. We -beached the boat where she could not be seen from the river, tied her to -a tree on the bank above so that she might not get away at high tide, -and then plunged into the dense young fir woods that clothed the lower -reaches of the Piziquid shore. There was no trail, but it was plain to -me that Nicole well knew the way. - -“You’ve gone this way before, Nicole?” said I. - -“Yes, monsieur, a few times,” he answered. - -I considered for a moment, pushing aside the wet, prickly branches as I -went. Then— - -“What is her name, Nicole?” I asked. - -“Julie, Master Paul,” said he softly. - -“Ah,” said I, “then you had reasons of your own for coming with me -to-night?” - -“Not so!” he answered, a rebuking sobriety in his voice. “None, save my -love for you and your house, Master Paul. _She_ is in no peril. She is -far from here, safe in Isle St. Jean this month past.” - -“I beg your pardon, my friend,” said I, at once. “I know your love. I -said it but to banter you, for I had not guessed that you had been led -captive, Nicole.” - -“A man’s way, Master Paul, when a woman wills!” said he cheerfully. - -But I had no more thought of it than to be glad it had taught Nicole -Brun a short path through the woods to Kenneticook. - -What strange tricks do these our tangled makeups play us! I know that -that night, during that swift half-hour’s run through the woods, my -whole brain, my every purpose, was concentrated upon the rescue of -George Anderson. The price I was prepared to pay was life, no less. Yet -all the shaping emotion of it—sharp enough, one would think, to cut its -lines forever on a man’s face, to say nothing of his brain—has -bequeathed to me no least etching of remembrance. Of great things all I -recall is that the name “Yvonne” seemed ever just within my lips—so that -once or twice I thought I had spoken it aloud. But my senses were very -wide awake, taking full advantage, perhaps, of the heart’s -preoccupation. My eyes, ears, nose, touch, they busied themselves to -note a thousand trifles—and these are what come back to me now. Such -idle, idle things alone remain, out of that race with death. - -Things idle as these: I see a dew-wet fir-top catch the moonlight for an -instant and flash to whiteness, an up-thrust lance of silver; I see the -shadow of a dead, gnarled branch cast upon a mossy open in startling -semblance of a crucifix—so clear, I cannot but stoop and touch it -reverently as I pass; I see, at the edge of a grassy glade, a company of -tall buttercups, their stems invisible, their petals seeming to float -toward me, a squadron of small, light wings. I hear—I hear the rush of -the tide die out as we push deeper into the woods; I hear the smooth -swish of branches thrust apart; I hear the protesting, unresonant creak -of the green underbrush as we tread it down, and the sharp crackle of -dry twigs as we thread the aisles of older forest; I hear, from the face -of a moonlit bluff upon our left, the long, mournful _Whóo-hu-hu—Hóo-oo_ -of the brown owl. I smell the savour of juniper, of bruised snakeroot, -of old, slow-rotting wood; with once a fairy breath of unseen _linnæa_; -and once, at the fringed brink of a rivulet, the pungent fragrance of -wild mint. I feel the frequent wet slappings of branches on my face; I -feel the strong prickles of the fir, the cool, flat frondage of the -spruce and hemlock, the unresisting, feathery spines of the young -hackmatack trees; I feel, once, a gluey web upon my face, and the -abhorrence with which I dash off the fat spider that clings to my chin; -I feel the noisome slump of my foot as I tread upon a humped and swollen -gathering of toad-stools. - -All this is what comes back to me—and Nicole’s form, ever silent, ever -just ahead, wasting no breath; till at last we came upon a fence, and -beyond the fence wide fields, and beyond the fields a low white house -with wings and outbuildings, at peace in the open moonlight. - -“We are in time, Master Paul!” said Nicole quietly. - - - - - Chapter XVIII - - For a Little Summer’s Sleep - - -We vaulted the fence, jumped a well-cut ditch (I took note that Anderson -was an excellent farmer), and ran across the fields. Presently came a -deep, baying bark, and a great, light-coloured English mastiff came -bounding toward us. - -“Quiet, Ban!” said Nicole; and the huge beast, with a puppy-whine of -delight, fell fawning at his knees. We were close to the house. Nicole -stopped, and pointed to a cabin just visible at the foot of a long slope -falling away to our right. - -“Julie’s brother may chance to be there, Master Paul,” said he. “He is -known for his devotion to Monsieur Anderson, whom few of us love. I will -go wake the lad, if he’s there, while you rouse the master.” - -“If you should fail to get back this way, my friend,” said I, “let us -meet, say, at the boat.” - -“Yes, at the boat,” he answered confidently. - -I paused, partly to get breath, partly to follow him with a look of -grateful admiration, the modest, still, strong, faithful retainer, of a -type nigh vanished. He ran with his black-shock head thrust forward, and -the great dog bounded beside him like a kitten. - -It was the last I ever saw of Nicole Brun; nor to this day, for all my -searching, have I had word of what befell him. Of the dog I learned -something, seeing his skin, a year later, worn upon the shoulders of an -Indian boy of the Micmac settlement. From this I could make shrewd guess -at the fate of my Nicole; but the Indian lies astutely, and I could -prove nothing. Sleep well, Nicole, my brave and true! - -George Anderson’s wide red door carried a brass knocker which grinned -venomously in the moonlight. My first summons brought no answer. Then I -thundered again, imperatively, and I heard Anderson’s voice within, -calling to servants. No servants made reply, so again I hammered, and -shook fiercely at the door. Then he came himself, looking bewildered. - -“Monsieur Grande, pardon me! The servants”— - -“The servants have fled,” I interrupted. “Come quickly! There is not a -minute to lose. The abbé’s savages are near. They are coming to scalp -you and burn your house. We will leave them the house.” - -There was no sign of fear on his face, merely annoyance; and I saw that -his mind worked but heavily. - -“Come in!” he said, leading the way into a wide room looking out upon -the Kenneticook tide. “I won’t be driven by those curs. They dare not -touch me. At the worst, with the help of the servants we can fight them -off. Sit down, monsieur.” - -And he proceeded calmly to pull on his boots. - -I had followed him inside, wild at his obstinacy. - -“I tell you,” said I, “they want your scalp. The servants are traitors -and have stolen away while you slept. We are alone. Come, man, come! -Would you have _my_ throat cut, too?” And I shook him by the shoulder. - -“Why have _you_ come?” he asked, unmoved, staring at me. - -“For the sake of Yvonne de Lamourie!” - -“Oh!” said he, eying me with a slow hostility. - -“You fool!” I exclaimed. “They have burned De Lamourie’s. I swore to -Yvonne de Lamourie that I would save you or die with you. If you think -she loves you, stir yourself. I cannot carry you. Look at that!” - -I pointed to the window. At Yvonne’s name he had risen to his feet. He -looked out. A group of canoes was turning in to shore, not two furlongs -distant. - -“Where is she?” he inquired, alert at last. - -“Safe,” said I curtly, “at Father Fafard’s.” - -Still he wavered, brave, but undecided. I think he wondered why I was -her chosen messenger. - -“She is in a frenzy at your peril,” I said, though the words stuck in my -throat. That moved him. His face lighted with boyish pleasure. - -“Come!” he cried, as if he had been urging me all the time. “We’ll slip -out at the back, and keep the buildings between us and the river till we -reach the woods.” - -“Have you no weapon?” I asked. - -“No,” said he, “but this will do,” and he picked up a heavy oak stick -from behind the door of the room. - -Great as was the haste, I told him to lock the main door. Then as we -slipped out at the back we locked the kitchen door behind us. I knew -this would delay the chase; whereas if they found the doors open they -would realize at once the escape of their intended victim and rush in -pursuit, leaving the little matter of the fire to be seen to afterwards. - -From the back door we darted to the garden, a thicket of pole beans and -hops and hollyhocks. From the furthest skirt of these shelters we ran -along a ditch that fenced a field of growing buckwheat, not yet high -enough to give covert; but I think we kept well in shadow of the house -all the way to the woods. If afterwards our enemies tracked us with what -seemed a quite unnecessary promptitude and ease, it must be remembered -that our trail was not obscure. - -I led the flight, intending we should strike the creek at some distance -above the boat and make our way down to it along the water’s edge, to -cover our traces. The more we could divide our pursuers, the better -would be our chances in the struggle, if overtaken. The pace I set was a -sharp one, and soon, as I could perceive by his breathing, began to tell -upon my heavy-limbed and unhardened companion. I slackened gradually, -that he might not think I did it on his account. - -In a very few minutes there arose behind us, coming thinly through the -trees, the screeching war-whoop of the Micmacs, which has ever seemed to -me more demoniacal and inhuman than even that of the Iroquois. Then, -when we took time to glance over our shoulders, we marked a red glare -climbing slowly. I judged that our escape was by this time discovered, -and the wolves hot upon our trail. - -To my companion, however, the sight brought a different thought. - -“Where were you,” he gasped, “when they attacked De Lamourie’s? Did you -not—promise—to save the place?” - -“I was a fool,” said I, between my teeth. “I thought the might of my -name had saved it. I went to the Habitants. When I got back it was -over.” - -“Ah!” was all he said, husbanding his breath. - -“And they think I am a traitor—that I sanctioned it,” I went on in a -bitter voice. - -He gave a short laugh, impatiently. - -“Who?” he asked. - -“Monsieur and Madame,” said I, “and, possibly, Mademoiselle also.” - -“I could—have told them better than that,” he panted; “I know a man.” - -Under the circumstances I did not think that modesty required me to -disclaim the compliment. - -A little further on he clutched me by the arm, and stopped, gasping. - -“Blown,” said he, smiling, as if the situation were quite casual. -“Must—one minute.” - -I chafed, but stood motionless. - -Suddenly there was a heavy crash some distance behind us. - -“They are so sure, they scorn the least precaution,” I whispered, -foolishly wroth at their confidence. “But come, though your lungs should -burst for it,” I went on. “I will seize the first hiding-place.” - -He rallied like a man, and we raced on with fresh speed. Indeed, as I -look back upon it, I see that he did miraculously well for one so unused -to the exercise. - -Five minutes later we came to a small brook crossing our path from left -to right toward the Kenneticook. It was a place of low, brushy shrubs -under large trees. - -“Keep close to me,” I whispered, “and look sharp. We’ll stop right -here.” - -I stepped into the middle of the brook, and he did likewise, carefully. -Setting our feet with precaution to disturb no stones, we descended the -stream some twenty paces, then crept ashore beneath the thick growth, -and lay at full length like logs. - -“You must get your breathing down to silence absolute,” I whispered; -“they will be here in two minutes.” - -In half a minute he had his laboring lungs in harness. Though within an -arm’s length of him I could hear no sound. But I could hear our pursuers -thrashing along on our trail. In a minute they were at the brook, to -find the trail cut short. I caught snatches of their guttural comment, -and laughed in my sleeve as I realized that Anderson’s very weakness was -going to serve our ends. The savages never dreamed that any one could be -winded from so short a run. Had their quarry gone up the brook or down -it, was all their wonder. Unable to decide, they split into two parties, -going either way. From the corner of my eye, violently twisted, I marked -seven redskins loping past down stream. - -When they were out of hearing, I touched Anderson on the shoulder. - -“Come,” said I, “now is our time.” - -“That was neat, very,” he muttered, with a quiet little chuckle, rising -and throwing off the underbrush like an ox climbing out of his August -wallow. - -“Straight ahead now for the creek,” I whispered, crossing the brook; but -a sound from behind made me turn. There stood a huge savage, much -astonished at the apparition of us. - -His astonishment was our salvation. It delayed his signal yell. As his -breath drew in for it and I sprang with my sword, the Englishman was -upon him naked-handed. He forgot his stick; which indeed was well, for -his two hands at the redskin’s throat best settled the matter of the -signal. For a Quaker, whom I have heard to be peaceful folk, Anderson -seemed to me a good deal in earnest. Big and supple though the savage -was, he was choked in half a minute and his head knocked against a tree. -Anderson let him drop, a limp carcass, upon the underbrush, and stood -over him panting and clenching his fingers, ready to try a new hold. - -I examined the painted mass. - -“Not dead, quite!” said I. “But he’s as good as dead for an hour, I -should say. I think perhaps we need not finish him.” - -“Better finish him, and make sure,” urged Anderson, to my open -astonishment. “He may stir up trouble for us later.” - -But I was firm. I like, positively like, to kill my man in fair fight; -but once down he’s safe from me, though he were the devil himself. - -“No,” said I, “you shall not. Come on. If the poor rascal ever gets over -that mauling, he’ll deserve to. _That_ was neat, now. You are much -wasted in Quakerdom, monsieur, when your English armies are needing good -men.” - -He was following close at my heels, as I once more led the race through -the woods. He made no answer. Either he was saving his wind, or he was -angry at leaving a good job unfinished. I mocked myself in my own heart, -thinking: - -“Paul, you fool, out of this big Quaker you have made a fighter, and he -seems to like it. You may find your hands full with him, one of these -days.” - -The thought was pleasant to me on the whole, for it is ill and -dishonouring work to fight a man who is no fair match for you. That was -something I never could stomach, and have ever avoided, even though at -the cost of deep annoyance. - -Now the ground began to rise, and I guessed we were nearing the creek at -a point where the banks were high. - -“Nearly there,” I whispered encouragingly, and thrust forward with -sudden elation through a dense screen of underbrush. I was right—all too -right. The leafage parted as parts a cloud. There was no ground beneath -my feet. - -“Back!” I hissed wildly, and went plunging down a dark steep, striking, -rebounding, clutching now at earth and now at air. At last it appeared -to me that I came partly to a stop and merely rolled; but it no longer -seemed worth while to grasp at anything. - - - - - Chapter XIX - - The Borderland of Life - - -Again I felt myself striving to grasp at something—nothing tangible now, -but a long series of exhausting, infinitely confused dreams. My brain -strove desperately to retain them, but the more it strove the more they -slipped back into the darkness of the further side of memory; and, with -one mighty effort to hold on to the last of the vanishing train, I -opened my eyes, oppressed with a sense of significant things forgotten. - -My eyes opened, I say; and they stared widely at a patch of sky, of an -untellable blue, sparkling gem-like, and set very far off as if seen -through the wrong end of a telescope. As I stared, the sense of -oppression slipped from me. I sat up; but the patch of sky reeled, and I -lay back again, whereupon it recovered its adorable stability. I felt -tired, but content. It was good to lie there, and watch that enchanted -sky, and rest from thought and dreams. - -After a while, however, I turned my head, and noted that I was in a -deep, low-vaulted, tunnel-shaped cave—or rather bottle-shaped, for it -was enlarged about the place where I lay. I noted that I lay on furs, on -a low, couch-like ledge; and I noted, too, that there was a wind -outside, for at intervals a branch was bowed across the cave-mouth and -withdrawn. Then I perceived that a little jar of water and a broken cake -of barley meal stood just within reach; and straightway I was aware of a -most interested appetite. I sat up again and began to eat and drink. The -patch of sky reeled, danced, blurred, darkened,—and again grew clear and -steady. I finished the barley bread, finished the little jar of water, -and sat communing lucidly with my right mind. - -It was manifest that I had been saved that night of my fall over the -cliff (by Anderson?—I prayed not); that I had been desperately ill—for -the hands and arms upon which I looked down with sarcastic pity were -emaciated; that I had been tenderly cared for—for the couch was soft, -the cave well kept, and a rude screen stood at one side to shield me -when the winds came into the cave-mouth. I raised my hands to my head. -It was bandaged; and at one side my hair had been much cut away. But my -hair—how long the rest of it was! And then came a stroke of wonder—my -once smooth chin was deeply bearded! How long, how long must I have -rested here, to grow so patriarchal an adornment! - -Stung to a fierce restlessness, and with a sinking at my heart, I rose, -tottered to the cave-mouth, and looked out. - -The world I had last seen was a green world on the threshold of June. -The world I looked on now was a world of fading scarlets, the last fires -of autumn fast dying from the ragged leafage. - -Below, beyond trees and a field, was outspread the wide water of Minas, -roughened to a cold and angry indigo under the wind. To the left, -purple-dim and haze-wrapped, sat Blomidon. Grand Pré must be around to -the left. Then the cave was in the face of the Piziquid bluff. So near -to friends, yet hidden in a cave! What had happened the while I lay as -dead? I tottered back to the couch, and fell on my back, and thought. My -apprehensions were like a mountain of lead upon the pit of my stomach, -and I laboured for my breath. - -First I thought of Nicole as having saved me—Anderson I knew would have -done his best, but was helpless among an unfriendly people, and well -occupied to keep his own scalp. Yet Nicole would have taken me to Father -Fafard! And surely there were houses in Grand Pré where the son of my -father would have been nursed, and not driven to hide in a hole—till his -beard grew! And surely, after all that had happened, Yvonne would no -longer count me a traitor, Monsieur and Madame would make amends for -this dreadful misjudgment! And surely—but if so, where were all these -friends? - -Or what had befallen Grand Pré? - -“If evil has befallen them (I did not say Yvonne) I want to die! I will -go out, and fight, and die at once!” I cried, springing to my feet. - -But I was still very weak, and my passion had yet further weakened me, -so that I fell to the floor beside the couch; and in falling I knocked -over the little jar and broke it. Even then I was conscious of a regret -for the little jar; I realized that I was thirsty; and though I wanted -to die, I wanted a drink of water first. - -This inconsequent mood soon passed, and I crawled back on to the couch, -the conviction well hammered into my brain that I was not yet fit to die -with credit. And now, having found me no comfort in reason, and having -faced the fact that there was nothing I could do but wait, I began to -muse more temperately, and to cast about, as one will when weak, for -omens and auguries. They kill time, and I hold them harmless. - -But a truce to cant. Who am I that I should dare to say I laugh at or -deny them? I may laugh at myself for a credulous fool. And I have no -doubt whatever that most omens are sheer rubbish, more vain than a -floating feather. But again there are things of that kindred that have -convinced me, and have blessed me; and I dare not be irreverent to the -mock mysteries, lest I be guilty of blaspheming those which are true. We -know not—that is the most we know. - -I will not agree, then, that I was a subject for laughter if, lying -there alone, sick, tormented, loving without hope, fast bound in -ignorance of events most vital to my love, I let my mind recall the -curious prophesyings of old Mother Pêche. Of Yvonne directly I dared not -suffer myself to think, lest my heart should break or stop. - -When fate denies occasion to play the hero, it is often well, while -waiting, to play the child. I lay quiet, looked at the patch of sky, and -occupied myself with Mother Pêche’s soothsayings. - -_Your heart’s desire is near your death of hope._ - -At first there was comfort in this, and I took it very seriously, for -the sake of the argument. But oh, these oracles, astute from the days of -Delphi and Dodona! Already I could perceive that my hope was not quite -dead. A thousand chances came hinting about the windows of my thought. -Why might not Yvonne be safe, well,—free? The odds were that things had -gone ill in my absence, but there was still the chance they might have -instead gone well. Here and now, plainly, was not my death of hope, -wherefore my heart’s desire could not be near. I turned aside the saying -in angry contempt, and fell to feeling my ribs, my shrunk chest, my -skinny arms, wondering how long before I could well wield sword again. - -In this far from reassuring occupation I came upon the little leather -pouch which Mother Pêche had hung about my neck. With eagerness I drew -out the mystic stone and held it up before my face. The eye waned and -dilated in the dim light, as if a living spirit lurked behind it. - -“Le Veilleur,” I said to myself. “The Watcher. Little strange is it if -simple souls ascribe to you sorcery and power.” - -Then I remembered the snatch of doggerel which the old dame had muttered -over it as she gave it to me. _While this you wear what most you fear -will never come to pass._ - -Curious it seemed to me that it should have stuck in my mind, though so -little heeded at the time. _What most you fear._ What was it most I -feared? Surely, that Yvonne should go to another. Then that, at least, -should not befall while I lived, if there were force in witchcraft; for -I would wear the “Watcher” till I died. - -But here again my delusive little satisfaction had but a breath long to -live. For indeed what most I feared was something, alas! quite -different. What most I feared was calamity, evil, anguish, for Yvonne. -Then, clearly, if her happiness required her to be the wife of George -Anderson, I could not hinder it. Could not? Nay, “_would_ not!” I cried -aloud; and thereupon, no longer able to drug myself with auguries, and -no longer able to be dumb under the misery of my own soul, I sprang -upright, strained my arms above my head, and prayed a selfish prayer: - -“God, give her joy, but through me, through me!” Then I flung myself -down again, and set my teeth, and turned my face to the wall. Thus I lay -as one dead; and so it fell that when the door of the cave was darkened, -and steps came to my bed, I did not look up. - - - - - Chapter XX - - But Mad Nor-nor-west - - -The steps came close to me, moved away, and were still. A sick man’s -curiosity soon works, and here, surely, were incalculable matters for me -to find out. I turned over suddenly. - -It was a fantastic figure that faced me, sitting on a billet of wood not -far from the door. Withered herbs were in the high, peaked cap. The -black-and-yellow mantle was drawn forward to cover the folded arms. The -steely eyes were at my inmost thought. - -There is no doubt I was still a sick man. I was unspeakably -disappointed. Looking back upon it now, I verily believe that I expected -to see Yvonne, as in a fairy tale. - -“Why did you come in,” I asked peevishly, twisting under those eyes, -“without proclaiming— - -“Woe, woe to Acadie the Fair, for the hour of her desolation cometh?” - -“It has come,” said he quietly. - -I sat up as if a spring had moved me. My eyes alone questioned. - -“Beauséjour has fallen. France is driven back on Louisbourg. The men of -Acadie are in chains. The women await what fate they know not. Their -homes await the flame.” - -Here was no madman speaking. - -“And—Yvonne?” I whispered. - -“They all are safe, under shelter of the governor—and of Anderson,” he -added icily. - -I had no more words for a moment. Then I asked—“And the Black Abbé?” - -His sane calm disappeared. His face worked; his hands came out from -under his cloak, darting like serpents; his eyes veered like pale flame. -As suddenly he was calm again. - -“He is at Louisbourg,” said he, “at Isle St. Jean—here—there—anywhere; -free, busy, still heaping and heating the fires which shall burn his -soul alive.” - -I like a man who is in earnest; but I could think of nothing appropriate -to say. After a pause I changed the subject. - -“I am thirsty,” said I, “and hungry too, I think, though I have eaten -all the barley bread. And I’m sorry, but I’ve broken the jar.” - -From a niche in the wall he at once brought me more barley cake, with -butter, and fresh milk, and some dried beef. The wholesome, homely taste -of them comes back to me now. Having eaten, I felt that nothing could be -quite so good as sleep; and with grateful mutterings, half spoken, I -slept. - -When I woke it was the cold light of early morning that came in at the -cave-mouth; and I was alone. I felt so much better that I got up at -once; but ere I could reach the door a dizziness came over me, and I -staggered back to my place, feeling that my hour was not yet. As I lay -fretting my heart with a thousand hot conjectures, my host came in. He -looked at me, but said not a word; nor could I get his tongue loosened -all through our light breakfast. At last, to my obstinate repetition of -the inquiry: “When shall I be strong enough to go down into Grand Pré?” -he suddenly awoke and answered: - -“A little way to-morrow, perhaps; and the next day, further; and within -the week, if you are fortunate, you should be strong enough for -anything. You will need to be, if you are going down into Grand Pré!” he -added grimly. - -Upon this direct telling I think I became in all ways my sane self—weak, -indeed, but no longer whimsical. I felt that Grûl’s promise was much -better than I could have hoped. I knew there would be need of all my -strength. I was a man again, no more a sick child. And I would wait. - -Grûl busied himself a few minutes about the cave, in a practical, -every-day fashion that consorted most oddly with his guise and fame. I -could not but think of a mad king playing scullion. But there was none -of the changing light of madness in his eyes. - -Soon he seated himself at the cave-mouth, and said, pointing to a -roughly shaped ledge with a wolfskin upon it: - -“Come hither, now, and take this good air. It will medicine your thin -veins.” - -Obeying gladly, I was soon stretched on the wolfskin at the very brink, -as it seemed, of the open world. But it was cold. Perceiving this, he -arose without a word, fetched another skin, and tucked it about me. His -tenderness of touch was like a woman’s. - -“How can I thank you?” I began. “It is to you, I now perceive, that I -owe my life. How much besides I know not!” - -He waved my thanks aside something impatiently. - -“Yes, I saved you,” said he. “It suited me to do so. I foresaw you would -some day repay me. And I like you, boy. I trust you; though in some ways -you are a vain fool.” - -I laughed. I had such confidence in him I began to think he would bring -all my desires to pass. - -“And I have been wont to imagine you a madman,” said I. “But I seem to -have been mistaken.” - -“Were I mad utterly as I seem,” said he, in a voice which thrilled me to -the bone, “it would not be strange. I am mad but on one subject; and on -that I believe that God will adjudge me sanest.” - -He was silent for a long time, that white fire playing in his eyes; and -I dared not break upon his reverie. At last I ventured, for my tongue -ached with questions unasked: - -“How did you find me when I fell over the cliff?” I queried. “And where -was the Englishman?” - -My mouth once opened, two questions instead of one jumped out. - -“It was noon,” said Grûl, “and I found your Englishman sitting by you -waiting for the sky to fall. Had the Micmacs come instead of me, your -two scalps would have risen nimbly together. He is a good man and brave; -but he lacks wits. A woman could trust him to do anything but keep her -from yawning!” - -I grinned with the merest silly delight—a mean delight. But Grûl went -on: - -“He is worth a dozen cleverer men; but he fatigued me. I sent him away. -I told him just how to go to reach the Piziquid settlement, whom to ask -for, and what help to bring for his sick comrade. Then, knowing what was -about to befall, and having in mind a service which you will do me at a -later day, and divining that you would rather be sick in a madman’s cave -than in an English jail, I brought you here. I was reputed a wizard in -the old days in France, for having brought men back from the very gape -of the grave; and I knew you would be long sick.” - -I looked at him, and I think my grateful love needed no words. - -“And what became of the Englishman?” I asked presently. - -“He appeared at last in Grand Pré,” answered Grûl, “and told the truth -of you, and dwelt awhile within the shadow of the chapel, to be near the -guests of Father Fafard; and he got a strong guard placed in the village -close at hand, that those who loved the English and feared the abbé -might sleep in peace. I hear he presses for the redemption of -Mademoiselle’s pledge; but she, to the much vexation of Monsieur and -Madame, is something dilatory in her obedience. Of course she will obey -in the end. Even Father Fafard exhorts her to that, for obedience sums -all virtues in a maid. But she has an absurd idea that the Englishman -should present alive to her the man who saved his life, before claiming -reward at hands of hers. I might have enabled him to do this; but you -were not in a mind to be consulted.” - -“You are the wisest man I ever knew,” said I, conscious of an absurd -inclination to fling myself at his feet and do penance for past -supercilious underratings. - -He seemed to accept the tribute as not undue, and again took up his -monologue. - -“Had you died, as seemed for some weeks likely for all my skill, I -should have smoothed the way for the stupid Englishman; but finding that -you would live, I thought to bind you to me by keeping your way open. In -a few days you will be well, and must tread your own path, to triumph or -disaster as your own star shall decree. In either case, I know you will -stand by me when my need comes!” - -“You know the merest truth,” said I. - - - - - Chapter XXI - - Beauséjour, and After - - -Now, while I was arranging in my mind a fresh and voluminous series of -interrogations, my singular host arose abruptly and went off without a -word, leaving me to rebuild a new image of him out of the shattered -fragments of the old. - -I saw that he was not mad, but possessed. One intolerably dominant -purpose of revenge making all else little in his eyes, he was mad but in -relation to a world of complex impulses; in relation to his great aim, -sane, and ultimately effective, I could not doubt. But the mad -grotesquerie of the part he had assumed had come to cling to him as -another self, no longer to be quite sloughed off at will. To play his -part well he had resolved to be it; and he was it, with reservation. -Just now, Acadie fallen and his enemy for the time in eclipse, I -concluded that he found his occupation gone. Therefore, after solitary -and tongue-tied years, his speech flowed freely to me, as a stream -broken loose. That he had a purpose with me, I divined, would excuse him -in his own sight for descending to the long unwonted relief of direct -and simple utterance. I expected to find out from him many things of -grave import during the few days of inaction that yet lay ahead of me. -Then I would be able to act—without, perhaps, the follies of the past. -Meanwhile this tender, icy, extravagant, colossal, all but omniscient -character had bound me to him with the irrefragable bonds of mystery, -gratitude, and trust. I was Yvonne’s first, but next I felt myself fast -in leash to the posturing madman Grûl. - -Returning soon to my couch, I dozed and mused away the morning. At noon -came no sign of my host, so I went to the niche in the wall, found food, -and made my meal alone, feeling myself hourly growing in strength. -Toward sunset Grûl strode in, wafted, as my convalescent nostrils -averred, upon a most savoury smell. It proved to be a still steaming -collop of roast venison, and after that feast I know the blood ran -redder and swifter in my pulses. - -“O best physician!” said I, leaning back. “And now, I beg you, assuage a -little the itching of my ears.” - -He sat, his mantle and wizard wand flung by, upon a billet of wood -against the wall, and looked not all unlike familiar mortals of the -finest. Leaning his chin in his long, clutching hands, as if to make -gesture impossible, he leaped straight into the story: - -“That fighting fire in your Anderson, when he killed the savage with his -hands, died out. He is still the Quaker farmer. He went to Grand Pré, -and cleared your name, and told how you had saved him for Mademoiselle -de Lamourie. With some inconsequence, Mademoiselle was thereupon austere -with him because he had not in turn saved _you_ for her. He went to -Halifax and did deeds with the council—for he secured further and -greater grants of land for himself and further and greater grants of -land for Giles de Lamourie, with compensations for the burnings which -English rule should have prevented, and with, last of all, an English -guard for Grand Pré, in order that scalps of English inclination might -be secure upon their owners’ heads. All this was wise, and indeed plain -sense—better than fighting. And he remains at Grand Pré, and waits upon -Mademoiselle de Lamourie, patient on crumbs. - -“In June things happened, while you slept here. The English came in -ships, sailing up Chignecto water and startling the slow fools at -Beauséjour. The English landed on their own side of the Missiguash. The -black ruins of Beaubassin cried out to them for vengeance on La Garne.” -(The name, upon his lips, snarled like a wolf.) - -“Vergor, the public thief, called in the men of the villages to help his -garrison. Beauséjour was a nest of beavers mending the walls—but not -till the torrent was already tearing through. The invaders, wading the -deep mud, forced the Missiguash, and drove back the white-coat -regiments. They seized the long ridge behind the fort, and set up their -batteries. Fort guns and field guns bowled at each other across the -meadows. - -“Meanwhile the English governor at Halifax sent for the heads of the -villages, the householders of Piziquid, Grand Pré, Annapolis. He said -the time was come, the final time, and they must swear fealty to King -George of England. He bade them choose between that oath, with peace, or -a fate he did not name. A few, wise like Giles de Lamourie, took oath. -The rest feared La Garne, trusted France, and accounted England an old -woman. They refused, and went home. - -“The siege went on, and many balls were wasted. The English were all on -one side of the fort, so those of the garrison who got tired of being -besieged walked out the other side and went home. These were the -philosophers. Vergor lived in his bomb-proof casemate, and was at ease. -But one morning while he sat at breakfast with other officers a shell -came through the roof and killed certain of them. - -“That ended it. If the bomb-proof was not bomb-proof, Vergor might get -hurt. He capitulated. His officers broke their swords, but in vain. La -Garne spat upon him.” - -Here he stopped, his eyes veered, and his face twisted. In a strange -voice he went on: - -“In La Garne yet flickers one spark of good—his courage. Till that is -eaten out by his sins he lives, not being fully ripe for the final -hell.” - -He stopped again, moistening his lips with his tongue. - -I put my hand to my head. - -“Give me a drink of water, I pray you!” said I to divert him, fearing -lest that swift and succinct narrative had come to an end. - -He gave it to me, and in a moment began again. - -“So Beauséjour fell,” said he. “La Garne left early, for him the English -wanted to hang. The rest marched out with honours of war. The English -found them an inconvenience as prisoners, and sent them to Louisbourg. -And Beauséjour is now Fort Cumberland.” - -“So fades the glory of France from Acadie—forever!” I murmured, weighed -down with prescience. - -“Just as it was fading,” continued Grûl, with a hint of the cynic in his -voice, “your cousin, Marc de Mer, came from Quebec with despatches. The -garrison was marching out. He, being already out, judged it unnecessary -to go in. He took boat down Chignecto water, and up through Minas to -Grand Pré. Here he busied himself with your uncle’s affairs, laying -aside his uniform and passing unmolested as a villager. - -“For a little there was stillness. Then the great doom fell. - -“To every settlement went English battalions. What I saw at Grand Pré is -what others saw at Annapolis, Piziquid, Baie Verte. An English colonel, -one Winslow, smooth and round and rosy of countenance, angry and -anxious, little in love with his enterprise, summoned the men of Grand -Pré to meet him in the chapel and hear the last orders of the king. -There had been “last orders” before, and they had exploded harmlessly -enough. The men of Grand Pré went—and your cousin Marc, having a -restless curiosity, went with them. Thereupon the doors were shut. They -were as rats in a trap, a ring of fire about them. - -“They learned the king’s decree clearly enough. They were to be put on -ships,—they, their families, such household gear as there might be place -for,—and carried very far from their native fields, and scattered among -strangers of an alien speech and faith. - -“Well, the mountains had fallen upon them. Who could move? They lay in -the chapel, and their hearts sweat blood. Daily their weeping women, -their wide-eyed children, came bringing food. But the ships were not -ready. The agony has dragged all summer. At last two small ship-loads -are gone; the crowd is less in the chapel; some houses stand empty in -the village, waiting to burn. The year grows old; the task is nearly -done.” - -There was a dark silence. - -“Has my cousin Marc gone yet?” I asked heavily. - -“He waits and wastes in the chapel.” - -“And my almost-father, Father Fafard?” - -“No,” said Grûl, “his trouble is but for others. He has ever counselled -men to keep their oaths. He has opposed a face of steel to Quebec -intrigue. The English reverence him. He blesses those who are taken -away. He comforts those who wait.” - -Of Yvonne I had no excuse for asking more. What more I would know I must -go and learn. To go and learn I must get strong. To get strong I must -sleep. I turned my face to the wall. - - - - - Chapter XXII - - Grûl’s Case - - -On the following day, being alone all day, I walked out, shaking at -first, but with a step growing rapidly assured. Not far from the cave I -passed a clear pool, and saw my face amid the branches leaning over it. -A pretty cavalier, I thought, to go a-wooing. A little further on I came -to a secluded cabin, where a young woman bent over the wash-tub in the -sunny doorway. I went up and saluted her courteously. The alarm died -from her face, and compassion melted there instead. - -“I have been long wounded, in the woods,” I said. “Give me, I pray you, -the charity of a cup of milk, and lend me your scissors and a glass.” - -At this the compassion ran away in laughter, and she cried merrily: - -“Sit here on the stoop, monsieur, till I get them for you.” - -“Plainly,” thought I, “you have not husband or brother in the chapel at -Grand Pré!” - -On her return she answered as it were straight to my thought. - -“My man’s in the woods!” she said, with pride. “And he’s all safe. They -didn’t catch _him_.” - -“You may well thank God for that, madame!” said I gravely, drinking the -milk with relish and setting myself assiduously to my toilet. My hair of -course I could do little with,—I was no barber’s apprentice. The long, -straight, lustreless black locks hung down over my collar, framing -lugubriously a face to scare hunger from a feast. But there was enough -of it to be persuaded into covering the patches and scars. - -My beard, however, proved interesting. With infinite pains I trimmed it -to a courtly point, and decided it would pass muster. It was not unlike -my uncle’s—and the Sieur de Briart was ever, in my eyes, an example of -all that was to be admired. The success of my efforts was attested by -the woman’s growing respect. She now recognized me for a gentleman, and -brought me a dish of curds, and bustled with civilities till I went. - -I arrived back at the cave in such good fettle that I felt another day -would see me ripe for any venture. But I was tired, and slept so soundly -that I knew not when my host came in. - -In the morning he was there, getting ready a savory breakfast. When I -proposed my enterprise for the day, he said, very wisely: - -“If you think you’re fit to-day, perhaps you may almost be so to-morrow. -Wait. Don’t bungle a great matter by a little haste!” - -So I curbed my chafing eagerness, and waited. He rested at home all day, -and we talked much. What was said, however, was for the most part not -pertinent to this record. Only one short reach of the conversation lives -in my memory—but that is etched with fire. - -It came in this way. One question had led to another, till at last I -asked: - -“Why do _you_ so hate La Garne?” and was abashed at my boldness in -asking. - -He sprang up and left the cave; and left me cursing my stupidity. It was -an hour ere he came back, but he was calm, and seated himself as if -nothing had happened. - -“I had thought,” said he, in an even voice, “that if I were to speak of -that the walls of this cave would cry out upon me for vengeance delayed. -But I have considered, and a little I will tell you. You must know; for -the hour will come when you will help me in my vengeance, and you might -weaken, for you do not comprehend the mad sweetness of hate. You are -born for a great happiness or a great sorrow, and either destiny may -make one blunt to hate. - -“I was a poor gentleman of Blois, part fop, part fantastical scholar, a -dabbler in magic, and a lover of women. My nature pulled two ways. I was -alone in the world, save for a little sister, beautiful, just come to -womanhood, whom I loved as daughter and sister both. She thought me the -wonderful among men. It chanced that at last I knew another love. A -woman, the wife of a witless pantaloon of the neighbourhood, ensnared -all my wits, till I saw life only in her eyes. Her husband came upon us -in her garden—and for his reproaches I beat him cruelly. But he, though -not a man, was not all fool. For loving his wife he could not punish -me—I being stronger and more popular than he; but he knew that for theft -the law would hang a man. He hid a treasure of jewels, and with a nice -cunning fixed the crime upon me. It was clear as daylight, so that -almost myself believed myself guilty. In a foul, reeking cell in the -city wall I awaited judgment and the penalty. - -“A confession makes the work of the judges easier, and as I would not -confess I was to be tortured—when the Court was ready; all in good time. - -“At Blois was a young blade renowned no less for his conquests of women -than for his ill-favoured face. His ugliness prevailed where the beauty -of other men found virtue an impregnable wall against it. He courted my -sister. She repulsed him. It got about and shamed him. Then (I this -while in prison, and she helpless) he laid a public wager with his -fellows that he would have her innocence. - -“He told her I was to be tortured. After a time he told her he could -save me from that extremity. This thought worked for a time upon her -lonely anguish. Then he swore he _would_ save me—but at a price. - -“At last the price was paid. He won his wager. On the day that I was -tortured she killed herself before the judges. He, astonished, fled to -Italy, hid in a monastery, and dedicated himself to the missions of the -New World. - -“The judges were, after all, men. They said the evidence against me was -insufficient. They set me free, as an avenger. - -“I have not been in haste. The man has grown more evil year by year; so -I have waited. I will not send him to his account till the score is -full. The deepest hell must be ready, and gape for him. Meanwhile, his -soul has dwelt all these years alone with fear. He is a brave man, but -he knows I wait—he knows not for what; and he sweats and is afraid!” - -He told the story simply, quietly; but there was madness in his voice. -The unspeakable thing choked me. I got up. - -“It is enough!” said I. “I will not fail you when you need me.” - -But I went out into the air for a little. - - - - - Chapter XXIII - - At Gaspereau Lower Ford - - -On the following day, being Tuesday, November 16, 1855, and my -twenty-seventh birthday, I went down to Grand Pré. I am thus precise -about the date, for I felt as I set forth that the issues of life and -death hung upon my going. Right here, it seemed to me, was a very -knife-edge of a day, which should sever and allot to me for all the -future my part of joy or ruin. Surely, thought I,—to justify my -expectation of colossal events,—I have not lain these long months dead, -that action, once more started, should dribble like a spent stream. - -Therefore I went, like a careful strategist, equipped with all the -knowledge Grûl could give. I had planned how to reach Father Fafard, and -through him how to reach Yvonne. And as the day was to be a great one, I -thought well it should be a long one. I set out upon the palest promise -of daybreak. - -My strength, under one compelling purpose, had come back; and it seemed -to me that I saw events and their chances with radiating clearness. So -up-strung were my nerves that the long tramp seemed over in a few -minutes, and I found myself, almost with surprise, at the lower ford of -the Gaspereau, just under the hill which backs Grand Pré. Here was the -thick wood wherein I planned to lie perdu, in the event of dangerous -passers. In a little while there came in view a woman, heavy-eyed and -dishevelled, carrying a basket of new-baked barley bread, very sweet to -smell. It was clear she was one with an interest in the prisoners at the -chapel. In such a case I could have no fear of stumbling upon a traitor. -I stepped out to her. - -“Would that he, too,” said I significantly, “had gone to the woods in -time!” - -Her eyes ran over with the ready and waiting tears; but she jerked her -apron jealously over the loaves, and looked at me with a touch of -resentment, as if to say, “Why had you such foresight, and not he?” - -“He went to hear the reading, and they took him,” she moaned. “And who -will keep the little ones from starving in the winter coming on?” - -“It is where I, too, would be now—in the chapel prison yonder,” said I -gently. “But I lay in the woods, wounded, too sick to go to the reading, -so I escaped.” - -The resentment faded out. She saw that I was not one of those who shamed -her husband’s credulity. I might have been caught too, had I been given -the same chance. - -“For the little ones, I pray you accept this silver, and count it a loan -to your husband in his prison,” said I, slipping two broad Spanish -pieces into her hand. - -She looked grateful and astonished, but had no words ready. - -“And do, I beg of you, a kindness to one in bitter need of it,” I went -on. “You know Father Fafard?” - -Her face lightened with love. - -“He grieves for me, thinking me dead,” said I. “Tell him, I beg of you, -that one who loves him waits to see him in the wood by the lower ford.” - -Her face clouded with suspicion. - -“How shall I know—how shall he know—you are honest?” she asked. - -I was troubled. - -“_You_ must judge by your woman’s wit,” said I. “And he will come. He -fears no one. But no, tell him Paul Grande waits at the lower ford.” - -“The traitor!” she blazed out; and, recoiling, hurled the money in my -face. It stung strangely. - -“You are wrong,” said I, in a low voice. “But as you will. Tell him, if -you will, that Paul Grande, the traitor, waits for him at the lower -ford. But if you do not tell him, be sure _he_ will not soon forgive -you. And for the money, he shall keep it for your children—and you will -be sorry to have unjustly accused me.” - -She laughed with bitter mockery, and turned away. - -“But I will tell him; that can do no harm,” she said. “I’ll tell him the -traitor who loves him waits at the ford.” - -I withdrew into the wood, beyond all reason pained at the injustice. - -The unpleasant peasant woman was as good as her word, however; for in -little more than the space of an hour I saw Father Fafard approaching. -Plainly he had come hot upon the instant. - -“My dear, dear boy! Where have you been, and what suffered?” he cried, -catching me hard by the two arms, and looking into my eyes. - -“It was Grûl saved me,” said I. - -Beyond earshot, deep in the wood, where no wind hindered the noon sun -from warming a little open glade, I told my story briefly. - -“Paul,” said he, when I had finished, “my heart has now the first -happiness it has known through all these dreadful months. But you must -slip out of this doomed country without an hour’s delay. Quebec, of -course! And then, when an end is made here, I will join you. Have you -money for the journey?” - -I laughed softly. - -“My plans are not quite formed. I must see Yvonne. Will you fetch her to -me?” - -He rose in anger—a little forced, I thought. - -“No!” said he. - -“Then, I beseech you, give her a message from me, that I may see her for -a little this very day.” - -“Paul,” he cried passionately, “it is a sin to talk of it. She has -pledged her troth. She is at peace. I will not have her disturbed.” - -“Does she love him?” I asked. - -“I—I suppose so. Or she will, doubtless,” he stammered. - -“Oh, doubtless!” said I. “And meanwhile, does she show readiness to -carry out her promise? Does she listen kindly to her impatient lover—her -anxious father?” - -“The Englishman has displeased her, for a time,” said he, “but that will -pass. She knows the duty of obedience; she respects the plighted word. -There can be but one ending; though you may succeed in making her very -unhappy—for a time.” - -“I will make her very happy,” I said quietly, “so long as time endures -for her and me.” - -He flashed round upon me with sharp scorn. - -“What can _you_ do for her? You, hiding for your life, the ruined -upholder of a lost cause! Here she is safe, protected, wealth and -security before her. And with you?” - -“_Life_, I think!” said I, rising too, and stretching out my arms. “But -listen, father,” I went on more lightly. “I am not so helpless. I have -some little _rentes_ in Montreal, you know. And moreover, I am not -planning to carry her off to-night. By no means anything so finely -irregular. I am not ready. Only, see her I will before I go. If you will -not help me, I will stay about this place, about your house indeed, till -I meet her. That is all. If you dote upon my going, you know the way to -speed me.” - -His kind, round face puckered anxiously. But he hit upon a compromise. - -“I will have no hand in it,” said he. “But if you are resolved to stay, -you may as well find her without loss of time. The house we occupy is -crowded, and she affects a solitary mood. She walks over the hill and -down this way, of an evening, to visit some unhappy ones along by the -river. You may see her, perhaps, to-night.” - -I grasped his hand and kissed it, but he drew it away, vexed at himself. - -“We will talk of other things now,” I said softly. “But do not be angry -if I say I love you, father.” - -He smiled with an air of reproach; and thereafter talk we did through -hours, save for a little time when he was absent fetching me a meal. All -that Grûl had told me of the ruin of the French cause he told me in -another colour, and more besides of the doom of the Acadians—but upon -Yvonne’s name we touched no more by so much as the lightest breath. - -At my cousin Marc’s rashness in going to the chapel he glanced with some -severity, grieving for the sorrow of the young wife at Quebec. But for -the English he had many good words—they were pitiful, he said, in the -act of carrying out cruel orders. And they neither robbed nor -terrorized. Not they, said he, but a wicked priest and the intriguers of -a rotten government at Quebec, were the scourge of Acadie. - -When the sun got low over the Gaspereau Ridge he called to mind some -duties too long forgotten, and bade me farewell with a loving -wistfulness. I think, however, it was the imminent coming of Yvonne that -drove him away. He feared lest he should meet her, and in seeming to -know of my purpose seem to sanction it. I could not help believing in my -heart that in this matter, perhaps for the first time in his priesthood, -the kind curé’s conscience was a little tremulous in its admonitions. - -I watched him out of sight; and then, posting myself in a coign of -vantage behind a great willow that overhung the stream, I waited with a -thumping heart, and with a misgiving that all other organs within my -frame had slumped away to nothing but a meagre and contemptible jelly. - - - - - Chapter XXIV - - “If You Love Me, Leave Me” - - -Till the flames of amber and copper along the Gaspereau Ridge had -temperately diminished to a lucidity of pale violet, I waited and -watched. Then all at once the commotion in my bosom came to an icy stop. - -A light, white form descended from the ridge to the ford. I needed not -the black lace shawl about the head and shoulders to tell me it was she, -before a feature or a line could be distinguished. The blood at every -tingling finger-tip thrilled the announcement of her coming. - -I grasped desperately at all I had planned to say—now slipping from me. -I felt that she was intrenched in a fixed resolve; and I felt that not -my life alone,—ready to become a very small matter,—but hers, her true -life, depended upon my breaking that resolve. Yet how was I to conquer -her, I who at sight of her was at her feet? I knew—with that inner -knowledge by which I know God is—that she, the whitest of women, -intended unwittingly a sin against her body in wedding a man -unloved—that she, in my eyes the wisest, most clear-visioned of women, -contemplated a folly beyond words. But how could I so far escape my -reverence for her as to convict her of this folly and this sin? - -But now all my thoughts, words, pleas, sprayed into air. She came—and I -stepped into her path, whispering: - -“Yvonne!” - -She was almost within reach of my hand, had I stretched it out,—but I -dared not touch her. She gave the faintest cry. Taken at so sudden a -disadvantage, she had not time to mask herself, and her great eyes told -for one heart-beat what I knew her lips would have denied. Her fingers -locked and unlocked where they caught the black mantilla across her -bosom. She stood for an instant motionless; then glanced back up the -hill with a desperate fear. - -“They will see you!” she half sobbed. “You will be caught and thrown -into prison. Oh, hide yourself, hide at once!” - -“Not without you,” I interrupted. - -“Then with me!” she cried pantingly, and led the way, almost running, -back of the willow, down a thread of a path, to a hidden place behind a -bend of the stream. Glancing back at the last moment, I saw a squad of -soldiers coming over the hill. - -As soon as she felt that I was safely out of sight and earshot, she -turned and faced me with a sudden swift anger. - -“Why have you done this? Why have you forced me to this?” she cried. - -“Because I love you,” said I slowly. “Because”— - -She drew herself up. - -“You do not know,” said she, “what I have promised to Monsieur Anderson. -I have promised to redeem my word to him when he can show you to me safe -and well.” - -I laughed with sheer joy. - -“He shall wait long then,” said I. “Sooner than he should claim the -guerdon I will fall upon my sword, though my will is, rather, to live -for you, beloved.” - -“Had the soldiers seen you and taken you,” said she, in her eagerness -forgetting her disguise, “he would have been able to claim me to-morrow. -They may yet take you. Oh, go, go at once!” - -“They shall not take me. Now that I know you love me, Yvonne,—for you -have betrayed it,—my life is, next to yours, the most precious thing to -me in the world. I go at once to Quebec to settle my affairs and prepare -a home for you. Then I will come,—it will be but in a month or two, when -this trouble is overpast,—and I will take you away.” - -Her face, all her form, drooped with a sort of weariness, as if her will -had been too long taxed. - -“You will find me the wife of George Anderson,” she said faintly. - -It was as if I had been struck upon the temples. My mouth opened, and -shut again without words. First rage, then amazement, then despair, ran -through me in hot surges. - -“But—your promise—not till he could show me to you,” I managed to -stammer. - -“I gave it in good faith,” she said simply. “I can no longer hold him -off by it, for I have seen you safe and well.” - -“I am _not_ safe, as you may soon see,” said I fiercely, “and not long -shall I be well, as you will learn.” Then, perceiving that this was a -sorry kind of threat, and little manly, I made haste to amend it. - -“No, no,” I cried, “forget that! But stick to the letter of your -promises, I beseech you. Why push to go back of that? Unless,” I added, -with bitterness, “you want the excuse!” - -She shuddered, and forgot to resent the brutality. - -“Go!” she pleaded. “Save yourself—for my sake—Paul!” And her voice -broke. - -“That you may wed with the clearer conscience!” I went on, merciless in -my pain. - -She crouched down, a drear and pitiful figure, on the slope of sod, and -wept silently, her hands over her eyes. I looked at her helplessly. I -wanted to throw myself at her feet. Then the right thing seemed that I -should gather her up into my arms—but I dared not touch her. At last I -said, doubtfully: - -“But—you love me!” - -No answer. - -“You do love me, Yvonne?” - -She lifted her face, and with a childish bravery dashed off the tears, -first with one hand, then the other. She looked me straight in the eyes. - -“I do _not_,” said she, daring the lie. “But you—you disturb me!” - -This astonishing remark did not shake my confidence, but it threw me out -of my argument. I shifted ground. - -“You do _not_ love him!” I exclaimed, lamely enough. - -“I respect him!” said she, cool now, and controlling the situation. I -felt that I had lost my one moment of advantage—the moment when I should -have taken her into my arms. Not timidity, but reverence, had balked me. -My heart turned, as it were, in my breast, with a hot, dumb fury—at -myself. - -“The respect that cannot breed love for a lover will soon breed -contempt,” said I, holding myself hard to mere reasoning. - -She ignored this idle answer. She arose and came close up to me. - -“Paul,” she said, scarcely above a whisper, “_will_ you save yourself -for my sake? If I say—if I say that I do love you a little—that if it -_could_ have been different—been you—I should have been—oh, glad, -glad!—then will you go, for my sake?” - -“No, no indeed!” shouted the heart within me at this confession. But -with hope came cunning. I temporized. - -“And if I go, for your sake,” I asked, “when do you propose to become -the wife of the Englishman?” - -“Not for a long time, I will promise you,” said she earnestly. “Not for -a year—no, not for two years, if you like. Oh,”—with a catch in her -voice,—“not till I can feel differently about you, Paul!” And she hung -her head at the admission. - -“Dear,” I said, “most dear and wonderful, can you not even now see how -monstrous it would be if I should seem, for a moment, to relinquish you -to another? Soul and body must tell you you are mine, as I am yours. But -your eyes are shut. You are a maid, and you do not realize what it is -that I would save you from. It is your very whiteness blinds you, so -that you do not see the intolerableness of what they would thrust upon -you. For you it would be a sin. You do not see it—but you would see it, -awaking to the truth when it was too late. From the horror of that -awakening I must save you. I must”— - -But she did not see; though her brain must have comprehended, her body -did not; and therefore there could be no real comprehension of a matter -so vital. She brushed aside my passionate argument, and came close up to -me. - -“Paul, dear,” she said, “I think I know the beauty of sacrifice. I am -sure I know what is right. You cannot shake me. I know what must be in -the end. But if you will go and save yourself, I promise that the end -shall be far off—so that he may grow angry, and perhaps even set me -free, as I have almost asked him to do. But now this is good-by, dear. -You shall go. You will not disobey me. But you may say good-by to me. -And as once you kissed my feet (they have been proud ever since), -so—though it is a sin, I know—you may kiss my lips, just once,—and go.” - -How little she knew what she was doing! Even as she spoke she was in my -arms. The next moment she was trembling violently, and then she strove -to tear herself away. But I was inexorable, and folded her close for yet -an instant longer, till she was still. I raised my head and pushed her a -little away, holding her by both arms that I might see her face. - -“Oh,” she gasped, “you are cruel! I did not mean that you should kiss me -so—so hard.” - -“My—wife!” I whispered irrelevantly. - -“Let me go, sir,” she said, with her old imperious air, trying to remove -herself from my grasp upon her arms. But I did not think it necessary to -obey her. Then her face saddened in a way that made me afraid. - -“You have done wrong, Paul,” she said heavily. “I meant you should just -touch me and go. You took unmanly advantage. Alas! I fear I have a bad -heart. I cannot be so angry as I ought. But I am resolved. You know, -now, that I love you; that no other can ever have my _love_. But that -knowledge is the end of all between us, even of the friendship which -might, one day, have comforted me. Go, I command you, if you would not -have me an unhappy woman forever!” - -She wrenched herself free. Then, seeing me, as she thought, hesitate for -an answer, she added firmly: - -“I love you! But I love honour more, and obedience to the right, and my -plighted word. Go!” - -“I will _not_ go, my beloved, till you swear to tell the Englishman -to-morrow that you love me and intend to be my wife.” - -“Listen,” she said. “If you do not go at once, I promise you that I will -be George Anderson’s wife to-morrow.” - -I stared at her dumbly. Was it conceivable that she should mean such -madness? Her eyes were fathomlessly sorrowful, her mouth was set. How -was I to decide? - -But fortune elected to save me the decision. A sharp voice came from the -bank above— - -“I arrest you, in the king’s name!” - -We glanced up. There stood a squad of red-coats, a spruce young officer -at their head. - - - - - Chapter XXV - - Over Gaspereau Ridge - - -“Monsieur Waldron!” cried Yvonne faintly. - -“You here, Mademoiselle de Lamourie!” he exclaimed, with a surprise that -his courtesy could not quite conceal. - -“This, monsieur,” she said, in a brave confusion, “is my friend, here -for a moment because of my foolish desire to see him. I beg you”— - -But he interrupted, reluctantly enough: - -“It hurts me, mademoiselle, to have to say that your friend is my -prisoner. If I were free to please you, he should go free.” - -The case was clearly beyond mending, so I would not condescend to -evasion. - -“I can do nothing but surrender, monsieur,” said I civilly, “under the -conclusive arbitrament of your muskets. Here is my sword.” He took it, -and I went on: - -“I am Captain Paul Grande, of the French army in Canada.” - -His face changed. - -“A spy, then!” he said harshly. - -“You insult with impunity,” I began. “An unarmed”— - -But Yvonne broke in, her eyes flaming: - -“How dare you, sir, insult _me_? That is not to be done with impunity, I -think.” - -The man looked puzzled. Then his face cleared somewhat. - -“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said slowly, looking from her face -to mine. “I begin to understand a little, I think. There _is_ a very -sufficient reason why a French officer might appear in an enemy’s -country without his uniform—that country being Grand Pré—and yet be no -spy!” - -“I give you my word of honour,” said I, “that I am no spy, but merely -your prisoner. And if brought to trial I will prove what I say.” - -“I beg _your_ pardon also—provisionally,” he replied, with a pleasant -air. “I am the last to believe a gentleman a spy, and I am confident you -will clear yourself of the unavoidable charge. You are a soldier. You -must see it to be unavoidable,” he added. - -“I do, monsieur,” said I sorrowfully. “I have lain for months, wounded -and delirious, in a hiding-place not far off, nursed by a faithful -friend. Having just recovered, I came here for a farewell to dear -friends; and you have arrived inopportunely, monsieur.” - -There was the bitterness of final despair beneath the lightness which I -assumed. - -“Your action seems to me very pardonable, I assure you,” said he. “But I -am not the judge. We must go.” And he motioned his men to me. - -But Yvonne came close to my side and laid her hand lightly on my arm. - -“It is my wish, Monsieur Waldron,” she said, “that Captain Grande should -escort me, with your assistance, and that of your guard also, if you -will!” - -“Why, certainly, mademoiselle, it shall be as you wish,” he said, with a -ghost of a smile, which set her blushing wildly. “I have Captain -Grande’s sword and his”— - -“And my word,” said I, bowing. - -“And his parole,” he continued. “I need in no way constrain him till we -reach the—the chapel. I will lead my men a little in the rear, and -strive not to interrupt your conversation.” - -“I can never thank you enough for your courtesy, monsieur,” said I. - -So it came that a strange procession marched up the Gaspereau Ridge, -through the bleak twilight. And the hilltop drew swiftly near—and my -last few minutes sped—and I was dumb. Still, she was at my side. And -perhaps my silence spoke. But when we crossed the ridge, and the chapel -prison appeared, and Yvonne’s house some way apart, my tongue found -speech;—but not argument, only wild entreaties, adorations, words that -made her body tremble, though not, alas! her will. - -At length she stopped. - -“You must go back to them now, Paul. I will go on alone. Good-by, dear!” - -“But we are not near the house,” I stammered. - -“Monsieur Anderson may come out to meet me. If he sees you now, before I -change my conditions, how shall I escape the instant fulfilment of my -promise?” - -“But I am not safe, surely,” I argued. - -“His testimony can at once make you safe,” said she. - -My heart dropped, feeling the truth of her words. I could say nothing -that I had not already said. Feeling impotent, feeling that utter defeat -had been hurled upon me in the very moment of triumph, my brain seemed -to stop working. - -“What will you do?” was all that came through my dry lips. - -She had grown much older in the last hour. - -“I will wait, Paul, as I promised you,” she said sadly; “one year—no, -two years—before I redeem my pledge and become his wife. That is all I -can do—and that I _can_ do. I choose to believe that you would have -obeyed me and gone away at once, if we had not been interrupted. -Therefore I keep my promise to you. It was not your fault that you were -not permitted to obey me.” - -I was quite at the end of my tether, though my resolution rose again to -full stature on learning that I should have time—time to plan anew. She -held out her hand. “Good-by, and God keep you, my dear friend!” said she -very softly. - -I looked around. The squad had halted near by. Some were looking, curse -them! But that most decent officer had his back turned, and was intently -scanning the weather. I lifted her hand to my lips. - -“My—wife!” I muttered, unfalteringly obstinate. - -“No!” she said sadly. “Only your friend. Oh, leave me that!” - -And she was gone, a Psyche glimmering away through the dark which strove -to cling to her. - -I stood for a moment, eyes and heart straining after her. Then I turned -as the guard came up. - -“At your service, monsieur,” said I. - - - - - Chapter XXVI - - The Chapel Prison - - -Before the door of the chapel stood a bent old figure hooded in a red -shawl. Muttering, and with bowed head, it poked in the dust with a -staff. When we were close at hand it straightened alertly; and old -Mother Pêche’s startling eyes flashed into mine. I could have kissed the -strange hawk face, so glad was I to see it. And I held out my hand, to -be clutched eagerly. - -“My blessings be upon thee, chéri Master Paul!” she cried. - -“Thank you, mother!” said I. “Your love is very dear to me; and for your -blessings, I need them all.” - -“Come, monsieur,” said Waldron, at the steps. - -“A word, a word,” she begged, half of him, half of me, “before thou go -in there and these old eyes, perhaps, see thee never again.” - -“Grant me one moment, I beg you, monsieur,” said I earnestly to Waldron. -“She is a dear old friend and retainer of my family.” - -He nodded, and turned half aside in patient indifference. - -“Listen,” she whispered, thrusting her face near mine, and talking -rapidly, that the guard, who were but clumsy with our French speech, -might not understand. “Hast thou the stone safe?” - -“Surely,” said I. - -“Then here, take this,” she muttered, laying a silken tress of hair in -my hand. In the dusk I could not note its colour; but I needed not light -to tell me whose it was. My blood ran hot and cold beneath it. The pulse -throbbed furiously in my fingers as they closed upon it. “I clipped it -under the new moon, the right moon, with my own hand, for thee, Master -Paul.” - -“Did she know it was for me?” I asked, in a sort of ecstasy. - -“No, no!” answered the old dame impatiently; “but she gave it to -me—laughing because I wanted it. I said that I was going far away with -these my people,”—sweeping her hand toward the village,—“while she, -perhaps, would stay. Strangely she regarded that _perhaps_, Master Paul. -But here it is—and I have put a spell upon it while waiting for thee to -come; and it will draw, it will draw her; she cannot let it go very far -off, as long as she lives. It is for thee, chéri, I did it.” - -Now, how I loved her for it, even while deriding the magic, I need not -tell. Yet I was angry with her for explaining. That made me seem to take -a base advantage in retaining the treasure. Sorrowfully I said: - -“I cannot keep it, mother. That were treason to her. I will have naught -of her but what her own heart gives me.” - -And I held out the precious lock to her again, yet all the time grasped -it tightly enough, no doubt. - -“Why, chéri,” she laughed cunningly, “where is the treason? _You_ don’t -believe an old wife’s foolish charms!” - -“True, mother,” I acquiesced at once, relieved beyond measure, “true, -there can be no witchcraft in it but that which ever resides in every -hair of that dear head. Not her, alas! but me, me it ensnares. God bless -you, mother, for this wonderful gift.” - -“Be of good cheer, Master Paul,” she said, hobbling briskly off. “I will -bring thee some word often to the wicket.” - -“I am ready now for the inside of these walls, monsieur,” said I, -turning to Waldron, with a warm elation at my heart. The hair I had -coiled and slipped into the little deerskin pouch wherein the eye of -Manitou slumbered. - -A moment more and I had stepped inside the prison. The closing and -locking of the door seemed to me unnecessarily loud, blatantly -conspicuous. - -At once I heard greetings, my name spoken on all sides, heartily, -respectfully, familiarly, as might be, for I had both friends and -followers—many, alas!—in that dolorous company. To them, worn with the -sameness of day upon monotonous day, my coming was an event. But for a -little I chose to heed no one. There was time, I thought, ahead of us, -more than we should know what to do with. As I could not possibly speak -to all at once, I spoke to none. I leaned against a wooden pillar, -looked at the windows, then the altar-place, of the sacred building -which hived for me so many humming memories of childhood—memories rich -with sweetness, sharp with sting. The place looked battered, begrimed, -desecrated,—yet a haunting of my mother’s gentle eyes still hallowed it. -To see them the better I covered my own eyes with my hand. - -“It must be something of a sorer stroke than merely to be clapped in -prison, to make my captain so downcast,” I heard a cheerful voice -declare close at my elbow. - -“Why, and that it is, you may be sure, my brave ferryman!” said I, -looking up with a smile and grasping the long, gaunt fingers of yellow -Ba’tiste Chouan. “I have my own reasons for not wanting to be in Grand -Pré chapel this day, for all that it is especially the place where I can -see most of my friends.” - -Straightway, my mood changing, I moved swiftly hither and thither, -calling them by name. There was the whole clan of the Le Marchands, -black, fearless, melancholy for their flax-fields; the three Le -Boutilliers; the brave young slip, Jacques Violet, whom I had liked as a -boy; a Landry or two; the lad Petit Joliet; several of the restless -Labillois; long Philibert Trou, the moose-hunter; and, to my regretful -astonishment, that wily fox, La Mouche. - -“_You_ here, too!” I cried, shaking him by the arm. “If they have caught -you, who has escaped!” - -“I came in on business, my captain,” said he grimly. - -“A woman back of it, monsieur,” grunted Philibert, indifferent to La -Mouche’s withering eye-stroke. - -Naturally, I did not smile. I met his brooding, deep eyes with a look -which told him much. I might, indeed, have even spoken a word of -comprehension; but just then I caught sight of my cousin Marc coming -from the sacristy. I hastened to greet him with hand and heart. - -There was so much to talk of between us two that others, understanding, -left us to ourselves. He told me of his little Puritan’s grief, far away -in Quebec, of her long suspense, and of how, at last, he had got word to -her. “She is a woman among ten thousand, Paul,” said he. “These New -Englanders are the people to breed up a wife for a French gentleman.” - -I assented most heartily, for I had ever liked and admired that -white-skinned Prudence of his. Of my own affairs I told him some things -fully, some things not at all; of my accident, my illness, my sojourning -with Grûl, everything; but of my coming to the Gaspereau ford and my -capture, nothing then. - -“There is too much hanging upon it, Marc,” said I. “It touches me too -deeply. I cannot talk of it at all while we are like to be interrupted. -Let us wait for quiet—when the rest are asleep.” - -“It is cold here at night,” said Marc, “but the women have been allowed -to bring us a few quilts and blankets. You wills hare mine—the gift of -the good curé. Then we can talk.” - -The early autumnal dark had been feebly lighted this while by a few -candles; but candles were getting scarce in the stricken cottages of -Grand Pré, and in Grand Pré chapel prison they were a hoarded luxury. -The words “lights out” came early; and Marc and I laid ourselves in a -corner of the sacristy by general consent reserved to him. - -A cold glimmer of stars came in by the narrow window, and I thought of -them looking down on Yvonne, awake, not sleeping, I well knew. Were the -astrologers right, I wondered. Good men and great had believed in the -jurisdiction of the stars. I remembered a very learned astrologer in -Paris, during the year I spent there, and futilely I wished I had -consulted him. But at the time I had been so occupied with the present -as to make small question of the future. - -Soon the sound of many breathings told that the prisoners were -forgetting for a little their bars and walls. In a whisper, slowly, I -told Marc of my coming to Grand Pré in the spring—of Yvonne’s bond to -the Englishman—of the conversation at the hammock—of the fire, the scene -at the boat, the saving of Anderson—and of all that had just been said -and done at the ford of the Gaspereau. - -He heard me through, in such silence that my heart sank, fearing he, -too, was against me; and I passionately craved his support. I knew the -lack of it would no jot alter my purpose; but I loved him, and hungered -for the warmth of the comrade heart. - -When he spoke, however, my fears straight fell dead. - -“Only let us get safe out of this coil, Paul, and we will let my -Prudence take the obstinate maid in hand,” said he, with an air that -proclaimed all confidence in the result. “You must remember, dear old -boy, the inevitable fetish which our French maids are wont to make out -of obedience to parents—a fair and worshipful virtue, indeed, that -obedience, but not one to exact the sacrifice of a woman’s life—and of -what is yet more sacred to her. Prudence will make her understand some -things that you could not.” - -I felt for his hand and gripped it. - -“You think I will win her?” I whispered. “And you will stand by me?” - -“For the latter question, how can you ask it?” he answered, with a hint -of reproach in his voice. “I fear I should stand by you in the wrong, -Paul, let alone when, as now, I count you much in the right. I have but -to think of Prudence in like case, you see. For the former question—why, -see, you have time and her own heart on your side. She may be obstinate -in that blindness of hers; and you may make blunders with your ancient -facility, cousin mine. But I call to mind that trick you ever had of -holding on—the trick of the English bulldog which you used so to admire. -It is a strange streak, that, in a star-worshipping, sonnet-writing, -wonder-wise freak like you, and makes me often doubt whether your -verses, much as I like them, can be poetry, after all. But it is a -useful characteristic to have about you, and, to my mind, it means -you’ll win.” - -“If the English don’t hang me for a spy,” said I. - -“Stuff!” grunted my cousin. “The maid will look to that.” - -Such was my confidence in my cousin Marc’s discernment that I went to -sleep somewhat comforted. - - - - - Chapter XXVII - - Dead Days and Withered Dreams - - -But to me awaking in the raw of the morning, a prisoner, the comfort -seemed less sure. All through the weary, soul-sapping weeks that -followed, it paled and shrank, till nothing was left of it but a -hopeless sort of obstinacy, so rooted in the central fibre-knots of my -being that to the very teeth of fate my pulses still kept beating out -the vow, “I _will_ win! I _will_ win!” - -For cheer, all my cousin’s sober and well-considered confidence could -not keep that in my heart. Of Yvonne, I could get not one word directly. -I saw her hand in the fact that nothing more was heard of the charge of -“spy” against me. Yet this benefit had a bitterness in it, for I knew -she must have done it through Anderson. Intolerably did that knowledge -grate. - -Mother Pêche came daily to the wicket, but could never boast a message -for my ear—and in this reticence of Yvonne’s I saw a hardness of resolve -which made my heart sink. Father Fafard, too, came daily with food for -me, and with many a little loving kindness; but of Yvonne he would not -speak. Marc, one day, encountered him on the subject, but prevailed not -at all, in so much that they two parted in some heat. - -At last from Mother Pêche came word that my dear maid was ill, obscurely -ailing, pale-lipped, and with no more of the fathomless light in her -great eyes. The reassurance that this gave me on the score of her love -was beyond measure overbalanced by the new fear that it bred and -nourished. Would not the strain become too great for her—so great that -either her promise to wait would break down, or else her health? Here -was a dilemma, and upon one or the other of the horns of it I writhed -hourly. It cost little to feed me, those weeks in the Grand Pré chapel -prison. - -Meanwhile, it is but just to our English jailers—they were men of New -England chiefly, from Boston, Plymouth, Salem, and that vicinage—to -record it of them that they were kind and little loved their employment. -They held the doom of banishment to be just, but they deplored the -inescapable harshness of it. As I came to learn, it was for New -England’s sake chiefly, and at her instance, that old England had -ordained the great expulsion. Boston would not trust the Acadians, and -vowed she could no longer endure a wasp’s nest at her door. Thus it was -that the decree had at last gone forth; and even I could not quite deny -the justice of it. I knew that patient forbearance had long been tried -in vain; and I bethought me, too, of the great Louis’ once plan, to -banish and utterly purge away all the English of New England and New -York. - -Of affairs and public policy in the world outside our walls I learned -from Lieutenant Waldron, who came in often among us and made me his -debtor by many kindly courtesies. He had an interest in me from the -first—in the beginning, as I felt, an interest merely of curiosity, for -he doubtless wondered that Mademoiselle de Lamourie should stoop to be -entangled with two lovers. But soon he conceived a friendship for me, -which I heartily reciprocated. I have ever loved the English as a brave -and worthy enemy; and this young officer from Plymouth town presented to -my admiration a fair epitome of the qualities I most liked in his race. -In appearance he was not unlike Anderson, but of slimmer build, with the -air of the fighter added, and a something besides which I felt, but -could not name. This something Anderson lacked—and the lack was subtly -conspicuous in a character which even my jealous rivalry was forced to -call worthy of love. - -The reservation in my own mind I found to lie in Waldron’s also, and -with even more consequence attached to it. Anderson having chanced to be -one day the subject of our conversation, I let slip hint of the way it -galled me to feel myself in his debt for exemption from the charge of -spying. - -“I can easily understand,” said he, “that you feel it intolerable. I am -surprised, more and more daily, at Mademoiselle de Lamourie’s acceptance -of his suit. Oh, you French,—may I say it, monsieur?—what a merchandise -you make of your young girls!” - -“You put it unpleasantly, sir,” said I; “but too truly for me to resent -it. You surprise me, however, in what you imply of Anderson. I liked him -heartily at first sight. I know him to be brave, though he does not -carry arms. He is capable and clear-sighted, kind and frank; and surely -he has beauty to delight a woman’s eyes. I am in despair when I think of -him.” - -“He is all you say,” acknowledged Waldron, with a shrewd twinkle in his -sharp blue eyes; “nevertheless there is something he is not, which damns -him for me. I don’t _quite_ like him, and that’s a fact. At the same -time I know he’s a fine fellow, and I ought to like him. I don’t mind -telling you, for your discomfort, that he has done all that man could do -to get you out of this place. He has been to Halifax about it, and dared -to make himself very disagreeable to the governor when he was refused. -It is not his fault you are not out and off by this time.” - -“Thank God, he failed!” said I, with fervour. - -“So should I say in your case, monsieur,” he replied, with a kind of dry -goodwill. - -To this obliging officer—in more kindly after-years, I am proud to say, -destined to become my close friend—I owed some flattering messages from -Madame de Lamourie. I knew she liked me—had ever liked me, save during -those days of my ignominious eclipse when I seemed to all Grand Pré an -accomplice of the Black Abbé and Vaurin. I had a suspicion that she -would not be deeply displeased should I, by any hook or crook, -accomplish the discomfiture of Anderson. But I well knew her -friendliness to me would not go so far as open championship. She would -obey her husband, for peace’ sake; and take her satisfaction in a little -more delicate malice. I pictured her as making the handsome English -Quaker subtly miserable by times. - -From Giles de Lamourie, however, I received no greeting. I took it that -he regarded me as a menace not only to his own authority, but to his -daughter’s peace. A prudent marriage,—a regular, well-ordered, decently -arranged for marriage,—in such he fancied happiness for Yvonne. But I -concerned me not at all for opposition of his. I thought that Yvonne, if -ever she should choose, could bring him to her feet. - -At last there came a break in the monotony of the days—a break which, -for all its bitterness, was welcomed. Word came that another ship was -tardily ready for its freight of exiles. The weary faces of the guard -brightened, for here was evidence that something was being done. Within -the chapel rose a hum of expectation, and all speculated on their -chances. For if exile was to be, “Let it come quickly” was the cry of -all. - -But no—not of all. I feared it, with a physical fear till then unknown -to me. To me it meant a new and appalling barrier. Here but two wooden -walls and a stone’s throw of wintry space fenced me from her bodily -presence. But after exile, how many seas, and vicissitudes, and -uncomprehending alien faces! - -But I was not to go this time; nor yet my cousin Marc, who, having at -last received from Quebec authentic word of the health and safety of his -Puritan, was looking out upon events with his old enviable calm. - -On the day when a stir in the cottages betokened that embarkation was to -begin, the south windows of the chapel were in demand. They afforded a -clear view of the village and a partial view of the landing-place. -Benches were piled before them, and we took turns by the half hour in -looking out, those at the post of observation passing messages back to -the eager rows behind. It was plain at once that the cottages at the -west end of the village were to be cleared in a block. On a sudden there -was a sharp outcry from the three Le Boutilliers, as they saw their -homely house-gear being carried from their doorways and heaped upon a -lumbering hay-wagon. They were of a nervous stock, and forthwith began a -great lamentation, thinking that their wives and families were to be -sent away without them. When the little procession started down the -street toward the landing—the old grandmother and the two littlest -children perched on the wagon-load, the wives and other children walking -beside in attitudes that proclaimed their tears—the good fellows became -so excited as to trouble our company. - -“Chut, men!” cried Marc, in a tone of sharp command. “Are you become -women all at once? There will be no separation of families this time, -when there is but one ship and no room for mistakes. The guards yonder -will be calling for you presently, never fear.” - -This quieted them; for my cousin had a convincing way with him, and they -accounted his wisdom something beyond natural. - -Then there came by two more wagons, and another sorrowful procession, -appearing from the direction of the Habitants; and the word “Le -Marchands” went muttering through the prison. Le Marchand settlement was -moving to the ship—and even now a cloud of black smoke, with red tongues -visible on the morning air, showed us what would befall the houses of -Grand Pré when the folk of Grand Pré should be gone. - -The Le Marchand men made no sign, save to glower under their brows and -grip the window sashes with tense fingers. They were of different stuff -from the Le Boutilliers, these black Le Marchands. They set their teeth -hard, and waited. - -So it went on through the morning, one man after another seeing his -family led away to the ship—his family and some scant portion of his -goods; and thus we came to know what men among us were like to be called -forth on this voyage. - -Presently the big door was thrown open, and all faces flashed about to -the new interest. Outside stood a double red line of English soldiers. -An officer—the round-faced Colonel Winslow himself—stepped in, a scroll -of paper curling in his hand. In a precise and something pompous voice -he read aloud the names of those to go. The Le Marchands were first on -the roll; then the Le Boutilliers, Ba’tiste Chouan, Jean and Tamin -Masson, and a long list that promised to thin our crowded benches by -one-third. But I was left among the unsummoned; and my cousin Marc, and -long Philibert Trou, and the wily fox La Mouche; and I saw Marc’s lips -compress with a significant satisfaction when he saw these two -remaining. Vaguely I thought—“He has a plan!” But thereafter, in my -gloom, I thought no more of it. - -So these chosen ones marched off between their guards; and that -afternoon the ship went out on the ebb tide with a wind that carried -her, white-sailed, around the dark point of Blomidon. Grand Pré chapel -prison settled apathetically back to a deeper calm. - - - - - Chapter XXVIII - - The Ships of her Exile - - -The days dragged till December was setting his hoar face toward death, -and still delayed the last ships. The jailers grew sour-visaged. From -Yvonne came no more word, only the tidings that she was not well, and -that her people were troubled for her. Father Fafard’s cheery wrinkles -at mouth and eyes deepened from cheer to care; but still his lips locked -over the name of Yvonne. - -My hope sank ever lower and lower. That old wound in my head, cured by -Grûl’s searching simples, began to harass me afresh—whether from cold, -the chapel being but barn-like, or from the circumstance that my heart, -ceaselessly gnawing upon itself, gnawed also upon every tissue and -nerve. I came strangely close to the ranger La Mouche in those bad days; -for though I knew not, nor cared nor dared to ask, his story, I saw in -his eyes a something which he, too, doubtless saw in mine. So it came -that we sat much together, in a black silence. It was not that I loved -less than of old my true comrade Marc, but the fact that he possessed -where he loved, and could with blissful confidence look forward, set him -some way apart from me. Upon La Mouche, with the deep hurt sullen in his -eyes, I could look and mutter to myself: - -“Old, wily fox, is your foot, once so free, caught in the snare of a -woman?” - -So tortuous a thing in its workings is this red clot of a human heart -that I got a kind of perverted solace out of such thoughts as these. - -At last the tired watchers at our south windows announced two ship in -the basin. They came up on the flood, and dropped anchor off the -Gaspereau mouth. - -“This ends it,” I heard Marc say coolly. “All that’s left of Grand Pré -can go in those two ships.” - -To me the words came as a knell for the burial of my last hope. - -The embarkation had now to be pushed with a speed which wrought infinite -confusion, for the weather had turned bitter, and it was not possible -for women and children to long endure the cold of their dismantled -homes. The big wagons, watched by us from our windows, went creaking and -rattling down the frozen roads. Wailing women, frightened and wondering -children, beds, chests, many-colored quilts, bright red and green -chairs,—to us it looked as if all these were tumbled into a narrowing -vortex and swept with a piteous indiscriminacy into one ship or the -other. The orderly method with which the previous embarkings had been -managed was now all thrown to the winds by the fierce necessity for -haste. We in the chapel were not left long to watch the scene from the -windows. While yet the main street of Grand Pré was dolorous with the -tears of the women and children, the doors of our prison opened and -names were called. I heeded them not; but the sound of my own name -pierced my gloom; and I went out. In the tingling air I awoke a little, -to gaze up the hill at the large house where Yvonne had lodged since the -parsonage had been taken for a guard-house. No message came to me from -those north windows. Then I turned, to find Marc at my side. - -“Courage, cousin mine,” he whispered. “We are not beaten yet. Better -outside than in there. This much means freedom—and, once free, we’ll -act.” - -“No, Marc, I’m not beaten,” I muttered. “But—it _looks_ as if I were.” - -“Chut, man!” said he crisply. “You couldn’t do a better thing to bring -her to her senses than you are doing now.” - -It was but a few steps down to the lane, and there we found ourselves in -a jumble of heaped carts and blue-skirted, weeping women. My head was -paining me sorely—a numb ache that seemed to rise in the core of my -brain. But I remember noting with a far-off commiseration the blubbered -faces of the women, and their poor little solicitudes for this or that -bit of household gear which, from time to time, would fall crashing to -the ground from the hastily laden carts. I found spirit to wonder that -the tears which had exhausted themselves over the farewell to fatherland -and hearthside should break out afresh over the cracking of a gilded -glass or the shattering of a blue and silver jug. The women’s -lamentations in a little hardened me, so that my ears ignored them; but -the wide-eyed terrors of the children, their questions unanswered, their -whimpering at the cold that blued their hands, all this pierced me. -Tears for the children’s sorrow gathered in my heart, till it was nigh -to bursting; and this curbed passion of pity, I think, kept my sick body -from collapse. It in some way threw me back from my own misery on to my -old unroutable resolution. - -“I _will_ win!” I said in my heart, as we came down upon the wharf at -the Gaspereau mouth. “Though there seems to be no more hope, there is -life; and while there is life, I hold on.” - -When we reached the wharf the ebb was well advanced. The boats could not -get near the wharf. Women had to wade ankle-deep in freezing slime to -reach them. The slime was churned with the struggle of many feet. The -stuff from the carts was at times dropped in the ooze, to be recovered -or not as might chance. The soldiers toiled faithfully, and their -leggings to the knee were a sorry sight. They were patient, these -red-coats, with the women, who often seemed to lose their heads so that -they knew not which boat they wanted to go in. To the children every -red-coat seemed tender as a mother. For any one, indeed, they would do -anything, except endure delay. Haste, haste, haste was all—and therefore -there was calamitous confusion. While I stood on the wharf awaiting the -order to embark, I saw a stout girl in a dark-red stomacher and grey -petticoat throw herself screaming into the water where it was about -waist deep, and scramble desperately to another boat near by. No effort -was made to restrain her. Dripping with tide and slime she climbed over -the gunwale; and belike found what she sought, for her cries ceased. -Again I noted—Marc called my attention to it—a small child being passed -from one boat to the other, as the two, bound for different ships, were -about diverging. The mother had stumbled blindly into one boat while the -child had been tossed into the other. In the effort to remedy this -oversight the child was dropped into the water between the boats. The -screams of the mother were like a knife in our ears. Two sailors went -overboard at once, but there was some delay ere the little one was -recovered. Then we saw its limp body passed in over the boatside; -whether alive or dead we could not judge; but the screams ceased and our -ear-drums blessed the respite. - -With the next boat came our turn; and I found myself wading down the -slope of icy ooze. I heard Marc, just behind me, mutter a careless -imprecation upon the needless defiling of his boots. He was ever -imperturbable, my cousin,—a hot heart, but in steel harness. - -We loaded the roomy long-boat till the gunwale was almost awash. The big -oars creaked and thumped in the rowlocks. We moved laboriously out to -the ships, which swung on straining cable in the tide. As we came under -her black-wall side, with the turbid red-grey current hissing past it, -men on deck caught us with grapnels, and we swung, splashing, under the -stern. Then, the tide being very troublesome, we were drawn again -alongside. - -Marc was at my elbow. “Look!” he cried, pointing to the ridge behind the -village. I saw a wide-roofed cottage on the crest break into flame. -There was a wind up there, though little as yet down here in the valley; -and the flames streamed out to westward, the black smoke rolling low and -ragged above them. - -“So goes all Grand Pré in a little!” muttered Marc. - -“It is P’tit Joliet’s house!” said I. - -“Yes,” said a steady young voice behind me; and I turned to see Petit -Joliet himself, watching with undaunted eyes the burning of his home. -“Yes, and it was a fine house. It would have hurt my father sorely, were -he alive now, to see it go up in smoke like that.” - -“Well, you have a brave heart,” said I, liking him well as I saw his -firmness. - -“Oh,” said he, “the only thing that is troubling me is this—shall I find -my mother on this ship? They are making mistakes now, these English, in -their haste to be done with us. I’m worried.” - -“If she is not on board,” said my kind Marc, “we’ll try and keep a watch -on the boats; and if we see her bound for the wrong ship we’ll let the -guard know. They _want_ to keep families together, if they can.” - -This was Marc, ever careful of others. But his good purpose was like to -have been frustrated soon as formed; for scarce were our feet well on -deck when our hands were clapped in irons, and we were marched off -straight to the hold. - -“Sorry, sir. Can’t help it. So many of you, you know,” said the red-coat -apologetically, as I stretched out my wrists to him. - -But glancing about the crowded deck I descried my good friend, -Lieutenant Waldron, busily unravelling the snarl of things. In answer to -my hail he came at once, warm, friendly, and trying not to see my irons. - -“One last little service, sir!” I cried. “Little to us, it may be great -to others. You see we are ironed, Captain de Mer and I. We will give our -word to neither attempt escape nor in any way interfere with this sorry -work. Let us two wait here on deck till the ship sails. We know all -these villagers; and we want to help you avoid the severance of -families.” - -“It is little to grant for you, my friend,” said he, in a feeling voice. -“You cannot know how my heart is aching. I will speak to the captain of -the ship, and you shall stay on deck till the ship sails.” - -Marc thanked him courteously, but I with no more than a look, for words -did not at that time seem compliant to say what I desired them to say. -They are false and treacherous spirits, these words we make so free with -and trust so rashly with affairs of life and death. How often do they -take an honest meaning from the heart and twist it to the semblance of a -lie as it leaves the lips! How often do they take a flame from the -inmost soul, and make it ice before it reaches the soul toward which it -thrilled forth! It has been my calling to work with words in peace, as -with swords in time of war; and I know them. I do not trust them. The -swords are the safer. - - - - - Chapter XXIX - - The Hour of her Desolation - - -Returning from a brief word with the ship-captain,—a very broad-bearded, -broad-chested man, in a very rough blue coat,—Lieutenant Waldron passed -us hastily, and signified that it was all right. With this sanction we -pushed along the crowded deck in order to gain a post of vantage at the -bow. The vessel, whose hold was now to be our new and narrow cage, was -one of those ordinarily engaged in the West Indian trade. Our noses told -us this. To the savours of fish and tar which clung in her timbers she -added a foreign tang of molasses, rum, and coffee. As we stumbled up the -cluttered deck, lacking the balance of free hands, these shippy smells -were crossed in curious, pathetic fashion by the homely odours of the -blankets, clothes, pillows, and other household stuff that lay about -waiting for storage. Here a woman sat stolidly upon her own pile, with a -mortgage on the future so long as she kept her bedding in possession; -and there a youngster, already homesick, for his wide-hearthed cabin, -sobbed heavily, with his face buried in an old coat of his father’s. - -For hours, in the bitter cold, we held our post in the bow of the ship -and watched the boats go back and forth. Of the old mother of Petit -Joliet we saw nothing. We judged perforce that she had been moved early -and carried to the other ship, which swung at anchor a little up the -channel. We were able—I say we, though Marc did all, I being, as it -were, drowned in my own dejection—we were able to be of service in -divers instances. When, for example, young Violet was brought aboard -with another boat-load from the chapel prison, we made haste to tell the -guards that we had seen his mother and sisters taken to the other ship. -As a consequence, when the boat went back to the wharf it carried young -Violet; so he and his were not divided in their exile. - -By the very next boat there came to us a black-browed, white-lipped -woman, from whose dry eyes the tears seemed all drained out. She carried -a babe-at-breast, while two thin little ones clung to her homespun -skirt. As soon as she reached the deck she stared around in wild -expectation, as if she thought to find her husband waiting to receive -her. Not seeing him, she straightway fainted in a heap. It chanced I -knew the woman’s face. She was the wife of one Caspar Besnard, of -Pereau, whom I had seen taken, early in the day, to the other ship. He -was conspicuous by reason of having red hair, a marvel in Acadie; and -therefore my memory had retained him, though he concerned me not. Now, -however, he did concern me much. A few words to the officer of the -guard, and the poor woman, with her children, was transferred to where -she doubtless found her husband. - -Such cases justified, in our jailers’ eyes, the favour that had been -shown us. Meanwhile our ship had filled up. We had seen Long Philibert -and La Mouche brought aboard, but had not spoken with them. “Time for -that later,” Marc had said. I had watched for Petit Joliet’s mother; and -I had watched eagerly for old Mother Pêche; but in vain. While yet the -boats were plying, heavy laden, between the shore and the other ship, we -found ourselves ready for departure. Our boats were swung aboard; and -the English _Yeo, heave ho!_ arose as the sailors shoved on the capstan. -Lieutenant Waldron, after an all but wordless farewell, went ashore in -the gig with two soldiers. The rest of the red-coats stayed aboard. They -had been reënforced by a fresh squad who were marched down late to the -landing. These, plainly, were to be our guard during the voyage; and I -saw with a sort of vague resentment that a tall, foppish exquisite of an -officer, known to me by sight, was to command this guard. He was one -Lieutenant Shafto, whom we had seen two or three times at the chapel -prison; and I think all disliked him for a certain elaborate loftiness -in his air. It came to my mind dimly that I should well rejoice to cross -swords with him, and I hinted as much to Marc. - -“Who knows?” said my unruffled cousin; “we may live to see him look less -complacent.” His smile had a meaning which I could not fathom. I could -see no ground for his sanguine satisfaction; and I dared not question -where some enemy might overhear. I thought no more of it, therefore, but -relapsed into my apathy. As we slipped down the tide I saw, in a -boat-load just approaching the other ship, a figure with a red shawl -wrapped round head and shoulders. This gave me a pang, as I had hoped to -have Mother Pêche with me, to talk to me of Yvonne and help me to build -up the refuge of a credulous hope. But since even that was denied -me—well, it was nothing, after all, and I was a child! I turned my eyes -upon the house, far up the ridge, where the Lamouries had lodging. It -was one of four, standing well aloof from the rest of the village; and I -knew they all were occupied by those prudent ones of the neighbourhood -who had been wise in time and now stood safe in English favour. The doom -of Grand Pré, I knew, would turn aside from them. - -But on the emptied and desolated village it was even now descending. -Marc and I, unnoticed in our place, were free to watch. So dire was even -yet the confusion on our deck, so busy seamen and soldiers alike, that -we were quite forgotten for a time. The early winter dark was gathering -upon Blomidon and the farther hills; but there was to be no dark that -night by the mouth of Gaspereau. - -The house of Petit Joliet, upon the hill, burned long alone. It was -perhaps a signal to the troops at Piziquid, twenty miles away, telling -them that the work at Grand Pré was done. Not till late in the afternoon -was the torch set to the village itself. Then smoke arose suddenly on -the westernmost outskirts, toward the Habitants dyke. The wind being -from the southeast, the fire spread but slowly against it. As the smoke -drove low the flames started into more conspicuous brilliance, licking -lithely over and under the rolling cloud that strove to smother them. -These empty houses burned for the most part with a clear, light flame; -but the barns, stored with hay and straw, vomited angry red, streaked -with black. Up the bleak hillside ran the terrified cattle, with wildly -tossing horns. At times, even on shipboard, we caught their bellowings. -They had been turned loose, of course, before the fires were started, -but had remained huddled in the familiar barnyards until this horrible -and inexplicable cataclysm drove them forth. Far up the slope we saw -them turn and stand at gaze. - -In an hour we observed that the wharf was empty, and the other ship -hoisting sail. Then the fires sprang up in every part of the village at -once. They ran along the main street below the chapel; but they came not -very near the chapel itself, for all the buildings in its immediate -neighbourhood had been long ago removed, and it stood in a safe -isolation, towering in white solemnity over the red tumult of ruin. - -“The chapel will be a camp to-night, instead of a prison,” said Marc at -my ear, his grave eyes fixed and wide. “It will be the last thing to -go—it and the Colony of Compromise yonder up the hill.” - -“But who shall blame them for the compromise?” I protested, unwilling to -hear censure that touched the father of Yvonne. - -Marc shrugged his shoulders at this. He never was a lover of vain -argument. - -“I wonder where the Black Abbé is at this moment!” was what he said, -with no apparent relevancy. - -“Not yet in his own place, I fear!” said I. - -“The implication is a pious one,” said Marc. “Yonder is the work of him, -and of no other. He should be roasting now in the hottest of it.” - -I really, at this moment, cared little, and was at loss for reply. But a -bullying roar of a voice just behind us saved me the necessity of -answering. - -“Here, you two! What are ye doin’ here on deck? Git, now! Git, quick!” - -The speaker was a big, loose-jointed man, ill-favoured and palpably -ill-humoured. I was pleased to note that the middle two of his obtrusive -front teeth were wanting, and that his nose was so misshapen as to -suggest some past calamitous experience. As I learned afterwards, this -was our ship’s first mate. I was too dull of mood—too sick, in fact—to -be instantly wroth at his insolence. I looked curiously at him; but Marc -answered in a quiet voice: - -“Merely waiting here, sir, on parole and by direction, till the proper -authorities are ready to take us below!” And he thrust out his manacled -hands to show how we were conditioned. - -“Well, here’s proper authority, ye’ll find out. Git, er I’ll jog ye!” -And he made a motion to take me by the collar. - -I stepped aside and faced him. I looked him in the eyes with a sudden -rage so deadly that he must have felt it, for he hesitated. I cared -nothing then what befell me, and would have smashed him with my -iron-locked wrist had he touched me, or else so tripped him and fallen -with him that we should have gone overboard together. But he was a brute -of some perception, and his hesitancy most likely saved us both. It gave -Marc time to shout—“Guards! Guards! Here! Prisoner escaping!” - -Instantly along the red-lit deck came soldiers running—three of them. -The mate had grabbed a belaying-pin, but stood fingering it, uncertain -of his status in relation to the soldiers. - -“Corporal,” said Marc ceremoniously to one of them, discerning his rank -by the stripes on his sleeve, “pardon the false alarm. There was no -prisoner escaping. We were here on parole, by the favour of Lieutenant -Waldron—as you yourself know, indeed, for we helped you this afternoon -in getting scattered families together. But this man—we don’t know who -he is—was brutal, and threatening violence in spite of our defenceless -state. Please take us in charge!” - -“Certainly, Captain de Mer,” said the man promptly. “I was just about -coming for you!” - -Then he turned to the mate with an air of triumphant aversion, in which -lurked, perhaps, a consciousness of conflicting and ill-defined -authorities. - -“No belaying-pins for the prisoners!” he growled. “Keep them for yer -poor swabs o’ sailor lads.” - -As we marched down the deck under guard the sails overhead were all -aglow, the masts and spars gleamed ruddily. The menacing radiance was by -this time filling the whole heaven, and the small, quick-running surges -flashed under it with a sinister sheen. As we reached the open hatch I -turned for a last look at Grand Pré. - -The whole valley was now as it were one seething lake of smoke and -flame, the high, half-shrouded spire of the chapel rising impregnable on -the further brink. The conflagration was fiercest now along the eastern -half of the main street, toward the water side. Even at this distance we -heard the great-lunged roar of it. High over the chaos, like a vaulted -roof upheld by the Gaspereau Ridge, arched an almost stationary covering -of smoke-cloud, impenetrable, and red as blood along its under side. The -smoke of the burning was carried off toward the Habitants and -Canard—where there was nothing left to burn. Between the red stillness -above and the red turbulence below, apart and safe on their high slope, -gleamed the cottages of the Colony of Compromise. With what eyes, I -wondered, does my beloved look out upon this horror? Do they strain -sadly after the departing ships—or does the Englishman stand by and -comfort her? - -As I got clumsily down the ladder the last thing I saw—and the picture -bit its lines in strange fashion on my memory—was the other ship, a -league behind us, black-winged against the flame. - -Then the hatch closed down. By the glimmer of a swinging lanthorn we -groped our way to a space where we two could lie down side by side. Marc -wanted to talk, but I could not. There was a throbbing in my head, a -great numbness on my heart. In my ears the voice of the Minas waves -assailing the ship’s timbers seemed to whisper of the end of things. -Grand Pré was gone. I was being carried, sick and in chains, to some -far-off land of strangers. My beloved was cared for by another. - -“No!” said I in my heart (I thought at first I had spoken it aloud, but -Marc did not stir), “when my foot touches land my face shall turn back -to seek her face again, though it be from the ends of earth. It is vain, -but I will not give her up. I am not dead yet—though hope is!” - -As I thought the words there came humming through my brain that foolish -saying of Mother Pêche’s. Again I saw her on that spring evening bending -over my palm and murmuring—“_Your heart’s desire is near your death of -hope_!” - -“Here is my death of hope, mother,” said I to myself. “But where is my -heart’s desire?” - -And with that I laughed harshly—aloud. - -It was an ill sound in that place of bitterness, and heads were raised -to look at me. Marc asked, with a trace of apprehension in his voice: - -“What’s the matter, Paul? Anything to laugh at?” - -“Myself!” I muttered. - -“The humour of the subject is not obvious,” said he curtly. - - - - - Chapter XXX - - A Woman’s Privilege - - -I did not sleep that night—not one eye-wink—in the hold of the New -England ship. Neither could I think, nor even greatly suffer. Rather I -lay as it were numbly weltering in my despair. What if I had known all -that was going on meanwhile in that other ship, a league behind us, -sailing under the lurid sky! - -The events which I am now about to set down were not, as will be seen, -matter of my own experience. I tell what I have inferred and what has -been told me—but told me from such lips and in such fashion that I may -indeed be said to have lived it all myself. It is more real to me than -if my own eyes had followed it. It is sometimes true that we may see -with the eyes of others—of one other—more vividly than with our own. - -In the biggest house of that “Colony of Compromise” on the hill—the -house nearest the chapel prison—a girl stood at a south window watching -the flames in the village below. The flames, at least, she seemed to be -watching. What she saw was the last little column of prisoners marching -away from the chapel; and her teeth were set hard upon her under lip. - -She was not thinking; she was simply clarifying a confused resolve. - -White and thin, and with deep purple hollows under her great eyes, she -was nevertheless not less beautiful than when, a few months before, -joyous mirth had flashed from her every look and gesture, as colored -lights from a fire-opal. She still wore on her small feet moccasins of -Indian work; but now, in winter, they were of heavy, soft, white -caribou-skin, laced high upon the ankles, and ornamented with quaint -pattern of red and green porcupine quills. Her skirt and bodice were of -creamy woollen cloth; and over her shoulders, crossed upon her breast -and caught in her girdle, was spread a scarf of dark-yellow silk. The -little black lace shawl was flung back from her head, and her hands, -twisted tightly in the ends of it, were for a wonder quite still—tensely -still, with an air of final decision. Close beside her, flung upon the -back of a high wooden settee, lay a long, heavy, hooded cloak of grey -homespun, such as the peasant women of Acadie were wont to wear in -winter as an over-garment. - -A door behind her opened, but Yvonne did not turn her head. George -Anderson came in. He came to the window, and tried to look into her -eyes. His face was grave with anxiety, but touched, too, with a curious -mixture of impatience and relief. He spoke at once, in a voice both -tender and tolerant. - -“There go the last of them, poor chaps!” he said. “Captain Grande went -some hours ago—quite early. I pray, dear, that now he is gone—to exile -indeed, but in safety—you will recover your peace of mind, and throw off -this morbid mood, and be just a little bit kinder to—some people!” And -he tried, with an awkward timidity, to take her hand. - -She turned upon him a sombre, compassionate gaze, but far-off, almost as -if she saw him in a dream. - -“Don’t touch me—just now,” she said gently, removing her hand. “I must -go out into the pastures for air, I think. All this stifles me! No, -alone, _alone_!” she added more quickly, in answer to an entreaty in his -eyes. “But, oh, I am sorry, so sorry beyond words, that I cannot seem -kind to—some people! Good-by.” - -She left the room, and closed the door behind her. The door shut -smartly. It sounded like a proclamation of her resolve. So—that was -settled! In an instant her whole demeanour changed. A fire came back -into her eyes, and she stepped with her old, soft-swaying lightness. In -the room which she now entered sat her father and mother. The withered -little reminiscence of Versailles watched at a window-side, her black -eyes bright with interest, her thin lips slightly curved with an acerb -and cynical compassion. But Giles de Lamourie sat with his back to the -window, his face heavy and grey. - -“This is too awful!” he said, as Yvonne came up to him, and, bending -over, kissed him on the forehead and the lips. - -“It is like a nightmare!” she answered. “But, would you believe it, -papa, the very shock is doing me good? The suspense—_that_ kills! But I -feel more like myself than I have for weeks. I must go out, breathe, and -walk hard in the open.” - -De Lamourie’s face lightened. - -“Thou _art_ better, little one,” said he. “But why go alone at such a -time? Where’s George?” - -But Yvonne was already at her mother’s side, kissing her, and did not -answer her father’s question; which, indeed, needed no answer, as he had -himself seen Anderson go into the inner room and not return. - -“But where will you go, child?” queried her mother. “There are no longer -any left of your sick and your poor and your husbandless to visit.” - -“But I will be my own sick, little mamma,” she cried nervously, “and my -own poor—and my own husbandless. I will visit myself. Don’t be troubled -for me, dearies!” she added, in a tender voice. “I am so much better -already.” - -The next moment she was gone. The door shut loudly after her. - -“Wilful!” said her mother. - -“Yes, more like she used to be. Much better!” exclaimed Giles de -Lamourie, rising and looking out at the fires in a moment of brief -absent-mindedness. “Yes, much better, George,” he added, as Anderson -appeared from the inner room. - -But the Englishman’s face was full of discomfort. “I wish she would not -go running out alone this way,” said he. - -“Curious that she should prefer to be alone, George,” said Madame de -Lamourie, with deliberate malice. She was beginning to dislike this man -who so palpably could not give her daughter happiness. - - * * * * * - -Yvonne, meanwhile, was speeding across the open fields, in the teeth of -the wind. The ground was hard as iron, but there was little snow—only a -dry, powdery covering deep enough to keep the stubble from hurting her -feet. She ran straight for the tiny cabin of Mother Pêche, trusting to -find her not yet gone. None of the houses at the eastern end of the -village were as yet on fire. That of Mother Pêche stood a little apart, -in a bushy pasture-lot. Yvonne found the low door swinging wide, the -house deserted; but there were red embers still on the hearth, whereby -she knew the old woman had not been long away. - -The empty house seemed to whisper of fear and grief from every corner. -She turned away and ran toward the landing, her heart chilled with a -sudden apprehension that she might be too late. Before she was clear of -the bushes, however, she stopped with a cry. A man who seemed to have -risen out of the ground stood right in her path. He was of a sturdy -figure, somewhat short, and clad in dull-coloured homespun of peasant -fashion. At sight of her beauty and her alarm his woollen cap was -snatched from his head and his cunning face took on the utmost -deference. - -“Have no fear of me, mademoiselle,—Mademoiselle de Lamourie, if I may -hazard a guess from your beauty,” said he smoothly. “It is I who am in -peril, lest you should reveal me to my enemies.” - -“Who are you, monsieur?” she asked, recovering her self-possession and -fretting to be gone. - -“A spy,” he whispered, “in the pay of the King of France, who must know, -to avenge them later, the wrongs of his people here in Acadie. I have -thrown myself on your mercy, that I might ask you if the families who -have found favour with the English will remain here after this work is -done, or be taken elsewhere. I pray you inform me.” - -“Believe me, I do not know their plans, monsieur,” answered Yvonne. “And -I beg you to let me pass, for my haste is desperate.” - -“Let me escort you to the edge of the bush, then, mademoiselle,” said he -courteously, stepping from the path. “And not to delay you, I will -question you as we go, if you will permit. Is the Englishman, Monsieur -George Anderson, still here?” - -“He is, monsieur. But now leave me, I entreat you.” - -She was wild with fear lest the stranger’s presence should frustrate her -design. - -The man smiled. - -“I dare go no farther with you than the field edge, mademoiselle,” said -he regretfully. “To be caught would mean”—and he put his hand to his -throat with ghastly suggestion. - -Relieved from this anxiety, Yvonne paused when she reached the open. - -“I must ask you a question in turn, monsieur,” said she. “Have you -chanced to learn on which of the two ships Captain de Mer and Captain -Grande were placed?” - -“I have been so fortunate,” replied the stranger, and the triumph in his -thought found no expression in his deferential tone or deep-set eyes. -Here was the point he had been studying to approach. Here was a chance -to worst a foe and win favour from the still powerful, though -far-distant, Black Abbé. - -He paused, and Yvonne had scarce breath to cry “Which?” - -“They are in the ship this way,” he said calmly. “The one still at -anchor.” - -“Thank you, monsieur!” she cried, with a passion in the simple words; -and was straightway off across the red-lit snow, her cloak streaming out -behind her. - -“The beauty!” said the man to himself, lurking in the bushes to follow -her with his eyes. “Pity to lie to her. But she’s leaving—and that stabs -Anderson; and she’s going on the wrong ship—and that stabs Grande. Both -at a stroke. Not bad for a day like this.” - -And with a look of hearty satisfaction on his face Le Fûret[1] (for -Vaurin’s worthy lieutenant it was) withdrew to safer covert. - -Footnote 1: - - None of Vaurin’s villains were taken by the English at the time of the - great capture, for none dared come within a league of an English - proclamation lest it should turn into a rope to throttle them.—P. G. - -Le Fûret smiled to himself; but Yvonne almost laughed aloud as she ran, -deaf to the growing roar at the farther end of the village and heedless -of the flaring crimson that made the air like blood. The wharf, when she -reached it, was in a final spasm of confusion, and shouted orders, and -sobbings. Now, she grew cautious. Drawing her cloak close about her -face, she pushed through the crowd toward the boat. - -Just then a firm hand was laid upon her arm, and a very low voice said -in her ear,—with less surprise, to be sure, than on a former occasion by -Gaspereau lower ford,— - -“_You_ here, Mademoiselle de Lamourie?” - -Her heart stood still; and she turned upon him a look of such imploring, -desperate dismay that Lieutenant Waldron without another word drew her -to one side. Then she found voice. - -“Oh, if you have any mercy, any pity, do not betray me,” she whispered. - -“But what does this mean? It is my duty to ask,” he persisted, still -puzzled. - -“I am trying to save my life, my soul, everything, before it’s too -late!” she said. - -“Oh,” said he, comprehending suddenly. “Well, I think you had better not -tell me anything more. I think it is _not_ my duty to say anything about -this meeting. You may be doing right. I wish you good fortune and -good-by, mademoiselle!”—and, to her wonder, he was off among the crowd. - -Still trembling from the encounter, she hastened to the boat. - -She found it already half laden; and in the stern, to her delight, she -saw Mother Pêche’s red mantle. She was on the point of calling to her, -but checked herself just in time. The boat was twenty paces from the -wharf-edge; and those twenty paces were deep ooze, intolerable beyond -measure to white moccasins. Absorbed in her one purpose, which was to -get on board the ship without delay, she had not looked to one side or -the other, but had regarded women, children, soldiers, boatmen, as so -many bushes to be pushed through. Now, however, letting her hood part a -little from her face, she glanced hither and thither with her quick -imperiousness, and then from her feet to that breadth of slime, as if -demanding an instant bridge. The next thing she knew she was lifted by a -pair of stout arms and carried swiftly through the mud to the boatside. - -After a moment’s hot flush of indignation at the liberty, she realized -that this was by far the best possible solution of the problem, as there -was no bridge forthcoming. She looked up gratefully, and saw that her -cavalier was a big red-coat, with a boyish, jolly face. As he gently set -her down in the boat she gave him a radiant look which brought the very -blood to his ears. - -“Thank you very much indeed!” she said, in an undertone. “I don’t know -how I should have managed but for your kindness. But really it is very -wrong of you to take such trouble about _me_; for I see these other poor -things have had to wade through the mud, and their skirts are terrible.” - -The big red-coat stood gazing at her in open-mouthed adoration, -speechless; but a comrade, busy in the boat stowing baggage, answered -for him. - -“That’s all right, miss,” said he. “Don’t you worry about Eph. He’s been -carryin’ children all day long, an’ some few women because they was -sick. He’s arned the right to carry one woman jest fer her beauty.” - -In some confusion Yvonne turned away, very fearful of being recognized. -She hurriedly squeezed herself down in the stern by Mother Pêche. The -old dame’s hand sought hers, furtively, under the cloak. - -“I went to look for you, mother,” she whispered into the red shawl. - -“I knew you’d come, poor heart, dear heart!” muttered the old woman, -with a swift peering of her strange eyes into the shadow of the girl’s -hood. - -“I waited for you till they _dragged_ me away. But I knew you’d come.” - -“How did you know that, mother?” whispered Yvonne, delighted to find -that this momentous act of hers had seemed to some one just the expected -and inevitable thing. “Why, I didn’t know it myself till half an hour -ago.” - -Mother Pêche looked wise and mysterious. - -“I knew it,” she reiterated. “Why, dear heart, I knew all along you -loved him.” - -And at last, strange as it may appear, this seemed to Yvonne de -Lamourie, penniless, going into exile with the companionship of misery, -an all-sufficient and all-explicative answer. - - - - - Chapter XXXI - - Young Will and Old Wisdom - - -Mother Pêche lived to do good deeds, and loved to think she did them -from an ill motive. Her witchcraft, devoutly believed in by herself, and -by a good half of Grand Pré as well, was never known to curse, but ever -to bless; yet its white magic she called black art. There was no one -sick, there was no one sorrowful, there was no child in all Grand Pré, -but loved her; yet it was her whim to believe herself feared, and in -hourly peril of anathema. Even Father Fafard, whom she affected to -deride, but in truth vastly reverenced, found it hard to maintain a -proper show of austerity toward this incomprehensible old woman. - -The boat, soon loaded, went dragging through the flame-lit tide toward -the ship. The old dame sat clutching Yvonne’s hand under the warm -privacy of the cloak. Here was a weight off her mind. She loved Yvonne -de Lamourie and Paul Grande better than any one else in the world; and -with all her heart she believed that to hold them apart would mean ruin -to others in the end, as well as to themselves. This which had now come -about (she had trembled lest Yvonne should not prove quite strong enough -at the last) seemed to her the best exit from a bad closure. Anderson -she had ever regarded with hostile and unreasoning contempt; and now it -suited her whim to tell herself that a part of her present satisfaction -lay in the thought of him so ignominiously thwarted. But in very truth -she believed that the thwarting was for his good; that he would recover -from his hurt in time, and see himself well saved from the lifelong -mordancy of a loveless marriage. In a word, what Mother Pêche wanted was -the good of those she loved, and as little ill as might be to those she -accounted enemies. - -Though the boat was packed with intimates of hers, she was absorbed in -studying so much of Yvonne’s face as could be seen through the -half-drawn hood. “She is, indeed, much better already,” said the old -dame to herself. “This _was_ the one medicine.” - -Yvonne, for her part, had no eyes but for the ship she was approaching. -Eagerly she scanned the bulwarks. Women’s heads, and children’s, she saw -in plenty; but no men, save the sailors and a few red-coats. - -“Are none of the—are there no _men_ on this ship?” she whispered to -Mother Pêche, in a sudden awful doubt. - -“But think, _chérie_,” muttered the old woman, “these men are dangerous. -Would they be left on deck like women and children? But no, indeed. They -are in the hold, surely; and in irons belike. But they are there—or on -the other ship,” she added uneasily in her heart. - -By this the boat was come to the ship-side. By some one’s carelessness -it was not rightly fended, and was suffered to bump heavily. One gunwale -dipped; an icy flood poured in; there was imminent peril of swamping. - -Women jumped up with screams, and children caught at them, -terror-stricken by the looming black wall of the ship’s side. The -boatmen cursed fiercely. The two soldiers in the boat shouted: “Sit -down! damn you! sit down!” with such authority that all obeyed at once. -The shrill clamour ceased; the peril was over; the embarkation went on. -Mother Pêche, with nerves of steel, had but gripped the more firmly upon -Yvonne’s hand. As for Yvonne, she had apparently taken no note of the -disturbance. - -Driven by a consuming purpose, which had gathered new fuel from the -picture of the fettered captives in the hold, Yvonne had no sooner -reached the deck than she started off to find the captain. But Mother -Pêche was at her elbow on the instant, clinging to her. - -“I must see the captain at once!” exclaimed Yvonne, “and make some -inquiry—find out _something_!” - -“Yes, _chérie_,” whispered the old dame, with loving irony, “and get -yourself recognized, and be taken back next boat to Monsieur George -Anderson.” - -The girl’s head drooped. She saw how near she had been to undoing -herself through impatience. She submissively followed the red shawl to a -retired place near the bow of the ship. There the two settled themselves -into a warm nest of beds and blankets, wherefrom they could watch the -end of the embarking. But what more engrossed their eyes was the end of -Grand Pré; for by now the sea of fire was roaring over more than half -the village, the whole world seemed awash with ruddy air, and the throbs -of scorching heat, even at their distance and with the wind blowing from -them, made them cover their faces from time to time and marvel if this -could be a December night. - -Fascinated by the monstrous roar, the mad red light, the rolling level -canopy of cloud, the old woman sat a long time silent, her startling -eyes very wide open, her hawk face set in rigid lines. But the lines -softened, the eyes filmed suddenly, at a sound close beside her. Yvonne -had buried her face in a coloured quilt, and was sobbing tempestuously. - -“It is well! It had to come! It was just a pulling of herself up by the -roots to leave her father and mother, poor heart!” thought the old woman -to herself. Then after a few minutes, she said aloud: - -“That is right, dear heart! Cry all you can. Cry it all out. You have -held it back too long.” - -“Oh, how could I leave _them_ so? How could I be so cruel?” moaned the -girl, catching her breath at every word or two. “They will die of -sorrow, I know they will!” - -“No, _chérie_, they will not die of sorrow,” said the old dame softly. -“They will grieve; but they have each other. And they will see you -again; and they will know you are safe, with your—_husband_,” she -finished slowly. - -Yvonne was silent at the word; but it was not repeated, though she -listened for it. - -“But how will they know I am safe?” she asked. - -“Because,” said the old woman, rising nimbly to her feet, “the sailors -are getting up the anchor now, and there is the last boat returning to -the land. I go to send word by them, saying where you are. It is too -late for any one to follow you now.” - -She went to the side of the ship, and called to the boat as it rowed -away: - -“Will you have the goodness, gentlemen, to send word to Monsieur de -Lamourie that his daughter is safe and well, and that she has of her own -choice gone into exile for a reason which he will understand; but that -she will come back, with love, when things are something changed?” - -The boat stopped, and the soldiers listened with astonishment to this -strange message. There was a moment of indecision, and she trembled lest -the boat should put back. But there was no one aboard with authority to -thwart the will of Mademoiselle de Lamourie, so a doubtful voice cried: - -“The message shall be delivered.” - -The oars dipped again, and the boat ran swiftly toward the landing; and -the ship sped smoothly out with the tide. - -The hawk face in the red shawl hurried back to Yvonne. The girl, sorely -overwrought, had once more buried her head in the quilt, that she might -the more unrestrainedly give way to her tears. Though she had no least -dream of going back, nevertheless the sending of the message, and the -realization that the ship was actually under way, had overwhelmed her. -Moreover, it had been for weeks that she had endured the great strain -dry-eyed, her breast anguished for the relief of tears. Now that the -relief had come, however, it threatened to grow excessive, too -exhausting in its violence. Mother Pêche sat beside her, watching for a -while in silence. Then she seemed to think the passionate outburst -should be checked. But she was far too wise to say so. - -“That’s right, dearie,” murmured the subtle old dame at the girl’s ear. -“Just cry as hard as you like, if it does you good. There’s so many -women crying on this ship, poor souls, that you’re no ways noticeable.” - -So many women crying! True, they had not the same to cry about that she -had, but Yvonne felt that her grief was suddenly cheapened. She must try -to be less weak than those others. With an obstinate effort she -strangled her sobs. Her shoulders heaved convulsively for a minute or -two, and then, with a strong shudder, she sat up, throwing back her deep -hair and resolutely dashing the tears from her eyes. - -“What a fool I am, mother!” she cried. “Here am I, where, after weeks of -dreadful thinking, I deliberately made up my mind to be. And I do not -repent my decision—no, not for one instant. It _had to be_. Yet—why, I’m -acting just like a baby! But now I’m done with tears, mother. You shall -see that I am strong enough for what I’ve undertaken.” - -“Of course you are, dear heart!” said the old woman softly. “The bravest -of us women must have our cry once in a while, or something is sure to -go wrong inside of us.” - -“And now hadn’t I better find the captain, and ask who’s on board?” -cried Yvonne, springing lightly to her feet, and no longer troubling to -keep the hood about her face. - -“But no, _chérie_!” urged the old woman. “Don’t you see how every one is -still busy, and shouting, and cursing, and unpleasant? This is not the -time. Wait just a little. And tell me, now, how you got away.” - -Yvonne sat down again, and told the whole story, vividly, with light in -her eyes, and with those revealing gestures of her small hands. The old -woman’s face darkened at the tale of the spy. - -“And so you see, mother,” she concluded, “I feel very confident that he -is in this ship—for the man could have no reason to lie to me about it. -I am sure from his face that he is the kind of man to do nothing without -a reason.” - -“Tell me what he looked like, _chérie_!” said the old woman, the whites -of her eyes flashing nervously. - -Yvonne described him—she made him stand there on the deck before them. -Mother Pêche knew that picture well. Le Fûret was one of the few living -creatures she feared. She rose to her feet, and involuntarily cast an -eager look in the direction of the other ship, whose sails, a league -away, shone scarlet in that disastrous light. - -“What is the matter?” asked Yvonne, in swift alarm. - -“My old legs need stretching. I was too long still,” said Mother Pêche. - -“No, you are troubled at something. Tell me at once,” cried Yvonne, -rising also, and letting her cloak drop. - -“Yes, _chérie_, yes!” answered the old woman, much agitated, and not -daring to deceive her. “I _am_ much troubled. That was Le Fûret, -Vaurin’s man, whom Captain Grande knocked down that day at the forge. He -would do anything. He would lie even to you!” - -Yvonne grew pale to the lips. - -“Then you think Paul is _not_”—she began, in a strained voice. - -“I think he _may_ not be in _this_ ship,” interrupted Mother Pêche -hurriedly. “But I’ll go right now and find out. Wait here for me.” And -she went off briskly, poking through the confusion with her staff. - -She knew men, this old dame; and she quickly found out what she wanted -to find out. Trembling with apprehension, she came back to Yvonne—and -went straight to the point. - -“No, no, dear heart!” she began. “He is not here. He is on the other -ship yonder. I have a plan, though”— - -But there was no use going on; for Yvonne had dropped in a faint. - - - - - Chapter XXXII - - Aboard the “Good Hope” - - -Mother Pêche was not alarmed, but, like the shrewd strategist she was, -made haste to turn the evil to good account. She summoned a soldier—by -excellent chance that same boyish-faced, tall fellow who had so patly -aided at the embarking; and he with the best will in the world and a -fluttering in his breast carried Yvonne straight to the captain’s cabin, -where he laid her upon the berth. Then, at Mother Pêche’s request, he -went to beg the captain’s presence for an instant in his cabin. - -The ship was now well under way, directed by a pilot who knew the shoals -and bars of Minas. The business of stowing baggage was in the hands of -petty officers. The captain could be spared for a little; and without -doubt the soldier’s manner proclaimed more clearly than words that here -was no affair of a weeping peasant. To such the captain would just now -have turned a deaf ear, for he had all day been striving to harden his -heart against the sight of sorrows which he could not mitigate. He was -an iron-grey, close-bearded man, this New England captain, with a stern -mouth and half-shut, twinkling eyes. Rough toward men, he was gentle -toward women, children, and animals. His name was John Stayner; and in -Machias, Maine, whence he hailed, he had a motherless daughter of -eighteen, the core of his heart, who was commonly said to rule him as -the moon rules ocean. When John Stayner went to the cabin and saw Yvonne -in his berth, her white eyelids just stirring to the first return of -consciousness, there was small need of Mother Pêche’s explanations. The -girl’s astonishing loveliness, her gentle breeding, the plain signals of -her distress, all moved him beyond his wont. He straightway saw his own -dark-haired Essie in like case—and forthwith, stirred by that fine -chivalry which only a strong man far past youth can know, he was on -Yvonne’s side, though all the world should be against her. - -As if their low voices were remote and speaking in a tongue but half -understood, Yvonne heard them talking of her—the old woman explaining -swiftly, concisely, directly; the New Englander speaking but now and -then a word of comprehension. His warmth reached Yvonne’s heart. She -opened her great eyes wide, and looked up into the man’s face with a -trustful content. - -His own eyes filled in response. To him it was much the look of his -Essie. He touched her hand with his rough fingers, and said hastily, -“This cabin is yours, Miss—Mademoiselle de Lamourie, I mean, so long as -you are on this ship. Good-night. I have much to do. Take care of her,” -he added, with a sudden tone of authority, turning to Mother Pêche. -“To-morrow, when we are clear of these shoals and eddies, we’ll see what -can be done.” - -And before Yvonne could control her voice or wits to thank him, he was -away. - -She turned shining eyes upon the old woman. - -“What makes him so kind?” she murmured, still half bewildered. “And what -will he do?” - -“He is a good man,” said Mother Pêche, with decision. “I believe he will -send us in a boat to the other ship, at the very first chance.” - -Yvonne’s face grew radiant. She was silent with the thought for a few -minutes. Then she glanced about the cabin. - -“How did I come here?” she asked, raising herself on her elbow. - -“This is the captain’s own cabin, _chérie_,” said the old woman, with -triumph in her voice. “And a big, boy-faced red-coat carried you here, -at my request, and looked as if he’d like to keep on carrying you -forever.” - -“I cannot sleep now, mother!” exclaimed the girl, slipping out of the -berth and drawing the woollen cloak about her. “Let us go on deck -awhile. Morning will come the more quickly so.” - -“Yes, to be sure. And I would look a last look on Grand Pré, if only on -the flames of its dear roofs,” agreed the old woman, obediently -smothering a deep yawn. In truth, now that things bade fair to work her -will, she wanted nothing so much as a good sleep. But whatever Yvonne -wanted was the chief thing in her eyes. The two went on deck, and -huddled themselves under the lee of the cabin, for there was a bitter -wind blowing, and the ship was too far from Grand Pré now to feel the -heat of the conflagration. The roaring of it, too, was at this distance -diminished to a huge but soft sub-bass, upon which the creaking of -cordage, the whistling of the wind, the slapping of the thin-crested -waves, built up a sort of bitter, singing harmony which thrilled -Yvonne’s ears. The whole village was now burning, a wide and terrifying -arc of flame from the Gaspereau banks to the woodland lying toward -Habitants. Above it towered the chapel, a fixed serenity amid -destruction. It held Yvonne’s eyes for a while; but soon they turned -away, to follow the lit sails of the other ship, now fleeting toward the -foot of Blomidon. At last, with a shiver, she said to her sleepy -companion: - -“Come, mother, let us go back into the cabin and sleep, and dream what -morning may bring to pass.” - - * * * * * - -That of all which morning should bring to pass nothing might be missed, -Yvonne was up and out on deck at the earliest biting daylight. She found -the ship already well past Blomidon, the vale of desolation quite shut -from view. To west and north the sky was clear, of a hard, steely -pallor. The wind was light, but enough to control the dense smoke which -still choked the greater half of the heavens. It lay banked, as it were, -sluggishly and blackly revolving itself along the wooded ridge that runs -southward from Blomidon. Straight ahead, across a wintry reach of sea, -sped the other ship, with all sail set. It seemed to Yvonne’s eyes that -she was much farther ahead than the night before, and sailing with a -dreadful swiftness. - -“Oh, we can never catch up!” she cried, pressing one hand to her side -and throwing back her head with a half-despairing gesture. - -Mother Pêche, who had just come on deck, looked troubled. “We do -certainly seem to be no nearer,” she agreed reluctantly. - -At this moment the captain came up, smiling kindly. He took Yvonne’s -hand. - -“I hope you have slept, mademoiselle, and are feeling better,” he said. - -“Yes, monsieur, thanks to your great kindness,” answered Yvonne, trying -to smile, “but is not the other ship getting very far ahead? She seems -to sail much faster than we do.” - -“On the contrary, my dear young lady,” said John Stayner, “the ‘Good -Hope’ is much the faster ship of the two. We shall overhaul them, with -this breeze, one hour before noon.” - -“Will we?” cried Yvonne, with other questions crowding into her eyes and -voice. - -The stern mouth smiled with understanding kindness. - -“If we do not, I promise you I will signal them to wait,” said he. “I -find three families on this ship whose men-folk are on the other. It was -great carelessness on some one’s part. I will send them in the boat with -you, mademoiselle,—and gather in as many blessings as I can out of this -whole accursed business.” - -“As long as I live, monsieur, there will be one woman at least ever -blessing you and praying for your happiness.” And suddenly seizing his -hand in both of hers Yvonne pressed it to her lips. - -A look of boyish embarrassment came over his weather-beaten face. - -“Don’t do that, child!” he stammered. Then, looking with a quizzical -interest at the spot she had kissed, he went on: “This old hand is -something rough and tarry for a woman’s lips. But do you know, now, I -kind of think more of it, rough as it is, than I ever did before. If -ever, child, you should want a friend in that country of ours you’re -going to, remember that Captain John Stayner, of Machias, Maine, is at -your call.” - -To escape thanks he strode off abruptly, with a loud order on his lips. - -Easy in her mind, Mother Pêche went back to capture a little more sleep, -Yvonne’s restlessness having roused her too early. As for Yvonne, she -never knew quite how that morning, up to the magical period of “one hour -before noon,” managed to drag its unending minutes through. It is -probable that she ate some pretence of a breakfast; but her memory, at -least, retained no record of it. All she remembered was that she sat -huddled in her cloak, or paced up and down the deck and talked of she -knew not what to the kind Captain John Stayner, and watched the space of -sea between the ships slowly—slowly—slowly diminish. - -For diminish it did. That marvel, as it seemed to her, actually took -place—as even the watched pot will boil at last, if the fire be kept -burning. While it yet wanted more than an hour of noon, the two ships -came near abreast; and at an imperative hail from the “Good Hope” her -consort hove to. A boat was quickly lowered away. Four sailors took the -oars. Two women surrounded by children of all sizes were swung down into -it; then the gratefully ejaculating old mother of Petit Joliet, the -tear-stains of a sleepless night still salty in the wrinkles of her -smiles; then Mother Pêche, serene in the sense of an astonishing good -fortune for those she loved; last of all, Yvonne—she went last, for -self-discipline. - -As Captain John Stayner moved to hand her over the side, she turned and -looked him in the eyes. The words she wanted to say simply would not -come—or she dared not trust her voice; but the radiance of her look he -carried in his heart through after-years. A minute more, and the boat -dropped astern; and Yvonne’s eyes were all for the other ship. But -Mother Pêche looked back; and she saw, leaning hungrily over the -taffrail of the “Good Hope,” the long form of the boy-faced soldier who -had twice carried Yvonne in his fortunate arms. - - - - - Chapter XXXIII - - The Divine Right of Queens - - -When Yvonne stood at last upon the deck of the ship of her desire, her -heart, without warning, began a far too vehement gratulation. Her cloak -oppressed her. She dropped it, and stood leaning upon Mother Pêche’s -shoulder. She grew suddenly pale, breathing with effort; and one hand -caught at her side. - -The apparition made a wondrous stir on deck. To those who had ever heard -of such a being, it appeared that the Witch of the Moon, in all the -indescribable magic of her beauty, had been translated into flesh. Men -seemed upon the instant to find an errand to that quarter of the ship. -Captain Eliphalet Wrye, who had been watching with great unconcern a -transfer whose significance seemed to him quite ordinary, came forward -in haste, eager to do the honours of his ship, and marvelling beyond -measure at such a guest. Captain Eliphalet had traded much among the -French of Acadie and New France. He knew well the difference between the -seigneurial and the _habitant_ classes; and this knowledge was just what -he needed to make his bewilderment complete. - -“Here’s the captain of the ship coming to see you, _chérie_!” whispered -Mother Pêche, squeezing the girl’s arm significantly. Yvonne steadied -herself with an effort, and turned a brilliant glance upon this -important stranger. With his rough blue reefing-jacket, extremely broad -shoulders, and excessively broad yellow-brown beard, Captain Eliphalet -looked to her just as she thought a merchant-captain ought to look. She -therefore approved of him, and awaited his approach with a smile that -put him instantly at ease. As he came up, however, hat in hand and with -considered phrases on his lips, the old woman forestalled him. - -“Let me present you, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said she, stepping forward -with a courtesy, “to my mistress, Mademoiselle de Lamourie, of Lamourie -Place.” - -“It is but ashes, alas! monsieur,” interrupted Yvonne, holding out her -hand. - -“The ship is yours, Mademoiselle de Lamourie!” he exclaimed, and bowed -with a gesture of relinquishing everything to her command. It was not -for nothing Captain Eliphalet had visited Montreal and Quebec. - -Yvonne dropped her lids for a second, and shook her head rebukingly. - -“That is not English, monsieur,” she protested, “but it is very nice of -you. I should not know what to do with a ship just now; but I like our -little pleasant French fictions.” - -Captain Eliphalet, however, could be French for a moment only. - -“But you, mademoiselle, you—how comes such a one as you to be sailing -away into exile?” - -Yvonne’s long lashes drooped again, and this time did not rise so -quickly. - -“I have reason to think, monsieur,” she answered gravely, “that dear -friends and kinsfolk of mine are on this ship, themselves going, -fettered, into exile. I could not stay behind and let them go so. But -enough of myself, monsieur, for the present,” she went on, speaking more -rapidly. “I want to ease the anxieties of these poor souls who have come -with me. Is there among your prisoners a young man known as ‘Petit -Joliet’? Here is his mother come to look for him.” - -Captain Eliphalet summoned a soldier who stood near, and put the -question to him in English. - -“There is one by the name of Franse Joliet on the roll, captain,” -answered the red-coat, saluting. - -“That’s he! That’s my boy!” cried his mother, catching the name. She had -been waiting close by with a strained, fixed face, which now went to -pieces in a medley of smiles and tears, like a reflection on still water -suddenly broken. She clutched Yvonne’s hands, blessed and kissed them, -and then rushed off vaguely as if to find Petit Joliet in durance behind -some pile of ropes or water-butt. - -“And Lenoir—Tamin Lenoir,” continued Yvonne, her voice thrilling with -joy over her task, “and Michel Savarin. Are they, too, in the hold?” - -“Yes, miss,” said the soldier, saluting again, and never taking his eyes -from her face. She turned to the two women in their restless fringe of -clingers; and they, more sober because more hampered in their delight, -thanked her devoutly, and moved off to learn what more they could -elsewhere. - -Meanwhile another figure had drawn near—a figure not unknown to Yvonne’s -eyes. - -When she first appeared Lieutenant Shafto, the English officer in -command of the guard, was pacing the quarter deck, stiffly remote and -inexpressibly bored. He had two ambitions in life—the one, altogether -laudable and ordinary, to be a good officer in the king’s service; the -other, more distinguished and uncommon, to be quoted as an example of -dress and manners to his fellow-men. In London he had achieved in this -direction sufficient success to establish him steadfastly in his -purpose. Ordered to Halifax with his regiment, he had there found the -field for his talent sorely straitened. At Grand Pré, far worse: it was -reduced to the dimensions of a back-door plot. Here on shipboard it -seemed wholly to have vanished. Nevertheless, for practice, and for the -preservation of a civil habit, he had clung to his niceties. Now, when -he saw Yvonne, his first thought was to thank Heaven he had been as -particular with his toilet that morning as if about to walk down -Piccadilly. - -He fitted his glass to his eye. - -“Gad!” he said to himself, “it really is!” - -He removed the glass, and giving it a more careful readjustment, stared -again. - -“Gad!” said he, “it is none other! A devilish fine girl! She couldn’t be -beat in all London for looks or wits. What does it mean? Given that cad -Anderson the slip, eh? Discriminating, begad!” - -Lieutenant Shafto had a definite contempt for Anderson, as a man who sat -by the fire when he might have been fighting. If a man fought well or -dressed well, Shafto could respect him. Anderson did neither. He was -therefore easily placed. - -“There’s something rich behind this,” went on the lieutenant to himself. -“But, gad! there is a savour to this voyage, after all. There’s a pair -of bright eyes—devilish bright eyes—to dress for!” - -He hitched his sword to a more gallant angle as he stepped primly down -the deck. He gave the flow of his coat an airy curve. He would have felt -of his queue had he dared, to assure himself it was dressed to a nicety. -He glanced with complaisance at his correct and entirely spotless -ruffles. And by this he was come to mademoiselle’s side, where he stood, -bowing low, his cap held very precisely across his breast. - -“The honour, mademoiselle! Ah, the marvel of it!” he murmured. “The ship -is transfigured. I was but now anathematizing it as a most especial -hell: I looked up, and it had become a paradise—a paradise of one fair -spirit!” - -Yvonne looked at him with searching eyes as he delivered this fantasia, -then a trifle imperiously gave him her hand to kiss. - -She had spoken passingly with him twice or thrice before, at Father -Fafard’s. She understood him—read him through: a man absurd, but never -contemptible; to be quite heartily disliked, yet wholly trusted; to be -laughed at, yet discreetly; vain, indomitable, a fighter and a fop; -living for the field and the hair-dresser. Here was a man whom she would -use, yet respect him the while. - -“You do nobly, monsieur,” she said, with a faint, enigmatic smile, “to -thus keep the light of courtly custom burning clear, even in our -darknesses.” - -“There can be no darkness where your face shines, mademoiselle,” he -cried, delighted not less with himself than with her. - -It was a little obvious, but she accepted it graciously with a look, and -he went on: - -“I beg that you will let me place my cabin at your disposal during the -voyage. You will find it narrow, but roomy enough to accommodate you and -your maid.” - -Here Captain Eliphalet interfered. - -“I claim the privilege, mademoiselle,” said he, with some vexation in -his tones, “of giving you the captain’s cabin, which is by all odds the -most commodious place on the ship—the _only_ place at all suitable for -you.” - -“The captain is right,” said Shafto reluctantly. “His cabin is the more -comfortable; and I beg him to share mine.” - -In this way, then, the difficulty was settled, and Yvonne found herself -in quarters of unwonted comfort for a West India trader, Captain -Eliphalet being given to luxury beyond the most of his Puritan kin. She -was contented with her accomplishment so far as it went; and having two -gallant men to deal with she felt already secure of her empire. She read -approbation, too, in those enigmatic eyes of Mother Pêche, with their -whites ever glancing and gleaming. Moreover, as she sat down to -luncheon, to the condiment of a bounding heart and so much appetite as -might nourish a pee-wee bird, she had two points gained to elate her. -First, in passing the open hatchway which, as Captain Eliphalet told -her, led to the prisoners’ quarters, she had shaken lightly from her -lips enough clear laughter to reach, as she guessed, those ears attuned -to hear it; and second, she had the promises both of the broad-bearded -captain and the beautifully barbered lieutenant, that her _cousins_, -Monsieur de Mer and Monsieur Paul Grande, should be brought on deck to -see her that very day. - -“You should be very good to them, gentlemen,” she said demurely, picking -with dubious fork at brown strips of toasted herring on her plate. “My -cousin Marc especially. _He_ is half _English_, you know. He has the -most adorable English wife, from Boston, with red hair wherein he easily -persuades himself that the sun rises and sets.” - -“If you would have us love them for your sake, mademoiselle, love them -not too much yourself,” laughed the broad-bearded Captain Eliphalet, in -vast good-humour; but the admirable lieutenant murmured: - -“There is no hair but black hair—black with somehow a glint in it when -the sun strikes—so.” - -And Mother Pêche, passing behind them and catching a flash from Yvonne’s -eye, smiled many thoughts. - - - - - Chapter XXXIV - - The Soul’s Supremer Sense - - -At this point it seems proper that I should once more speak in my own -person; for at this point the story of my beloved once more converges to -my own. - -I was awakened out of a bitter dream by Marc’s lips moving at my ear in -the stealthiest whisper. The first pallor of dawn was sifting down -amongst us from the open hatch, opened for air. I nodded my head to -signify I was awake and listening. There was a ringing gabble of small -waves against the ship’s side, covering up all trivial sounds; and I -knew we were tacking. - -“Listen now, Paul,” said Marc’s obscure whisper, like a voice within my -head. “We have made a beginning earlier than we planned, because the -guards were sleepy, and the noise of these light waves favoured us. You -knew, or guessed, we had a plan. That wily fox, La Mouche, brought a -file with him in his boot. It was sent to him while he was in the chapel -prison. Grûl, none other, sent it to him inside a loaf of bread—and, -faith, thereby came a broken tooth. Your Grûl is wonderful, a _deus ex -machinâ_ every time. Well, we muffled the file in my shirt, and I -scraped away, under cover of all this good noise, at the spring of La -Mouche’s handcuffs, till it gave. Now he can slip them on and off in a -twinkling; but to the eye of authority they are infrangible as ever. Oh, -things are coming our way at last, for a change, my poor dejected! We -will rise to-night, this very coming night, if all goes well; and the -ship will be ours, for we are five to one.” - -There was a thrill in his whisper, imperturbable Marc though he was. -Under the long chafing of restraint his imperturbability had worn thin. - -My own blood flowed with a sudden warmth at his words. Here was a near -hope of freedom, and freedom would mean to me but one thing—a swift -return to the neighbourhood where I might achieve to see Yvonne. I felt -the strong medicine of this thought working health in every vein. - -“But how to-night?” I whispered back, unwilling to be too soon sanguine. -“It takes time to file fetters, _n’est-ce pas_?” - -“Oh, but trust La Mouche!” replied Marc. “He understands those -bracelets—as you, my cousin, in days you doubtless choose to forget, -understood the more fragile, but scarce less fettering, ones affected by -fair arms in Montreal, or Quebec, or even Trois Pistoles.” - -I took it ill of my cousin to gall my sore at such a moment, but I -strictly held my tongue; and after a vexing pause he went on: - -“This wily La Mouche—with free hands and the knowing how, it is but a -turn and a click, and the thing is off. It will be no mean weapon, too, -when we’re ready to wield it.” - -I stretched fiercely. - -“Pray God it be to-night!” I muttered. - -“S-sh-sh!” whispered Marc in my ear. “Not so loud, boy! Now, with this -to dream on, go to sleep again. There’ll be something to keep us awake -next night.” - -“And when we’ve got the ship, what then?” I whispered, feeling no doubt -of our success. - -“We’ll run into the St. John mouth,” was the answer, “and then, leaving -the women and children, with such men as will stay, at the Jemseg -settlement, we will strike overland on snow-shoes for Quebec.” - -“And I for Grand Pré,” said I doggedly. - -I heard the ghost of a laugh flit from Marc’s lips. - -“Good dog! Hold fast!” said he. - -There was no gainsaying it. I was better. For perhaps an hour or two I -slept like a baby, to awake deeply refreshed. A clear light came down -the hatch, and there was a busy tramping of sailors overhead. It was -high morning. - -We were all awake, but silent. Sullen we might have seemed, and -hopelessly submissive, but there was an alertness in the eyes flashing -everywhere toward Marc and me, such as might have been warning to a folk -less hardily indifferent than our captors. Two red-coated guards, taxed -with the office of preventing conspiracy, paced up and down with their -heads high and heeded us little. “What could these poor handcuffed -wretches do, anyway?” was the palpable significance of their mien. - -We desired indeed, at that time, to do nothing save eat the breakfast of -weevilly biscuits just now served out to us, with good water still sweet -from the wells of vanished Grand Pré. When one has hunger, there is rare -relish in a weevilly biscuit; and I could have desired more of them than -I got. With our fettered hands we ate like a colony of squirrels. - -In the course of the morning it was not difficult, the guards being so -heedless, to pass whispered word from one to another, so that soon all -Marc’s plans were duly laid down. His was the devising and ordering -head, while La Mouche, for all his subtlety, and long Philibert Trou, -for all his craft, were but the wielded instruments. It was an unwonted -part for me to be playing, this of blindly following another’s lead; but -Marc had done well, seeing my heavy preoccupation, to make no great -demand upon my wits. My arm, he knew, would be ready enough at need. I -was not jealous. I wanted to fight the English; but I wanted to -think—well, of just one thing on earth. Looking back now, I trust I -would have been more useful to our cause that morning had not Marc’s -capacity made wits of mine superfluous. - -Throughout the morning we were all so quiet that the ship’s rats, lean -and grey, came out and ate the few crumbs we had let drop. Nevertheless, -ere an hour before noon every man knew the part he was to play in the -venture of next night. Long Philibert and La Mouche, with two other -Acadian woodsmen skilled in ambuscade, were to deal with the guard -silently. Marc and I, with no stomach for aught but open warfare, were -to lead the rush up through the hatchway, to an excellent chance of a -bayonet through our gullets. I felt justified now, however, in -considering as to whether I should be likely to find Yvonne still at -Grand Pré, casting a ray of beauty on the ruins, or at Halifax, -disturbing with her eyes the deliberations of the governor and his -council. - -I said—one hour before noon. About that time the speed of the ship -sensibly slackened, and there seemed presently a confusion, an -excitement of some sort upon deck. We heard hails and sharp orders. -There was a sound as of people coming on board. And then, of a sudden, a -strange trembling seized upon me. It was in every nerve and vein, and my -heart shook merely, instead of beating. Such a feeling had come over me -once before—when Yvonne’s eyes, turned upon me suddenly, seemed to say -more than her lips would have permitted her to acknowledge. With a faint -laugh at the very madness of it I could not but say to Marc: - -“I think that is Yvonne coming!” - -Whereupon he looked at me solicitously, as if he thought I was about to -be taken with some sickness. - -I bit my tongue for having said it. - -Before many minutes, however, footsteps passed near the hatchway, and -again the trembling took me. Then I caught a ripple of clear -laughter—life has never afforded to my ears other melody so sweet as -that laughter was, and is, and always will be. I sprang straight upon my -feet, but instantly sat down again. Marc himself had heard it and was -puzzled, for who that had ever heard the laughter of Yvonne de Lamourie -could forget it? - -“It—_is she_!” I said to him, in a thick voice. - - - - - Chapter XXXV - - The Court in the Cabin - - -It is marvel to us now how the next hours of suspense did pass. Yet pass -they did, and in a joy that was fairly certitude; for I could not doubt -the witness of my inmost soul. At length I saw that Marc believed also. -His grave, dark face grew luminous as he said, after long balancing of -the matter: - -“Her eyes, my Paul, have opened at the last instant, and she has chosen -exile with thee! Even so would Prudence have done. And seeing how thou, -my comrade, lovest her, I am ready to believe she may be almost such -another as Prudence. Wherefore she is here, _quod erat demonstrandum_!” - -Even as he spoke, a soldier came down the ladder and stood before us. - -“I am bidden to say,” said he, “that Mademoiselle de Lamourie desires to -see Captain de Mer and Captain Grande on deck; and I am ordered by -Lieutenant Shafto to fetch you at once.” - -With such haste as was possible—it is not easy when handcuffed to climb -ladders—we made our way on deck, and straight came Yvonne running to -meet us, both small hands outstretched. Her eyes sank into mine for just -one heart-beat—and that look said, “I love you.” Then her guarded face -grew maidenly impartial. - -“My friends! My dear friends!” she cried; but stopped as if she had been -struck. Our hands had not gone forth to meet hers. Her eyes fell upon -our fetters. She turned slowly toward Captain Eliphalet and Lieutenant -Shafto, who had followed close behind her. Flame gathered in her eyes, -and a dark flush of indignation went over her face. She pointed at our -handcuffs. - -“This to my friends—in my presence!” she cried. “Of a truth your -courtesy is tempered, gentlemen!” - -With an angry exclamation Captain Eliphalet sprang forward to remove the -offending irons; but the exquisite lieutenant was too quick for him. At -a sign the guard who had brought us slipped them off, and stood holding -them behind his back, while his officer was left free to make apologies. - -These were abundant, and of such a tone as to leave no doubt of their -sincerity. Moreover, by his manner, he included Marc and myself in his -expressions of regret, which proved sound policy on his part, and went -far to win his pardon from Yvonne. - -“Believe me, mademoiselle,” he concluded, “it was never for one moment -intended that these gentlemen, your friends, officers in the French -army, and therefore, though my enemies, yet honoured members of my own -profession, should thus obtrude upon your gentle eyes those chains, with -which not their fault, but the chances of our profession have for a -season embarrassed them.” - -This was so apt and so elegant a conclusion that Captain Eliphalet felt -himself urged to some great things, if he would not be quite eclipsed in -his guest’s entrancing eyes. - -“Indeed, mademoiselle,” he made haste to say, “as these gentlemen are -your friends and kinsmen, and you have dared so splendidly for their -sake, they may say good-by to the irons for the rest of the voyage, if -they will but give their word of honour that they will in no way use -their liberty to the detriment of my duties and responsibilities, nor to -free any of the other prisoners. - -He turned to us with a very hearty air. Yvonne looked radiant with -satisfaction. Lieutenant Shafto’s face dropped—for he doubtless thought -our continued freedom would much limit his privileges with Yvonne. But I -spoke up at once, forestalling Marc. - -“I need hardly assure you, Monsieur le Capitaine, that we do from our -hearts appreciate your most generous courtesy. But beyond the few hours -of freedom which we dare hope you may grant us each day, for the -priceless solace of our fair kinswoman’s company, we cannot in -conscience accept a favour that would too enviably distinguish us from -our fellows.” - -Captain Eliphalet looked unaffectedly astonished. Yvonne looked hurt and -disappointed for a moment; then her face changed, and I saw that her -swift brain was drawing intricate inferences from this strange rejection -of parole—to which Marc had assented in a word. As for the elegant Mr. -Shafto, however, he was frankly delighted. - -“Right soldierly said, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “A good officer stands -by his men. I am honoured in meeting you!” and with a very precise -civility he shook hands with us in turn. - -“But it is very cold here, is it not?” cried Yvonne, with a little -shiver, pulling her cloak close. “Let me invite you all to my cabin.” - -This invitation she gave with a flying radiance of look at Captain -Eliphalet, wherewith he stood a millionfold rewarded. - -In the cabin I was not greatly astonished, though more than greatly -pleased, to find Mother Pêche. The undisguised triumph in her eyes said, -“Didn’t I tell you?”—and in involuntary response to the challenge I -thrust my hand into my breast and felt the little deerskin pouch -containing the tress of hair and the mystic stone. She smiled at the -gesture. - -I pressed the dear old witch’s hand, and said in a low voice: - -“In all my life to come I cannot thank you enough. But isn’t it -wonderful? I’m in fear each moment of waking, and to find it a dream.” - -“She _is_ a dream, Master Paul!” said the old dame. “And see how all men -dream when they look upon her!” - -With a jealous pang I realized the truth of what she said; and thereupon -I made haste to Yvonne’s side, where I saw Marc, Shafto, and Captain -Eliphalet all hanging devoutly upon her words. I was but a dull addition -to the sprightly circle, for I was wondering how I should manage to get -a word with her. - -Had I but known her better I need not have wondered. Presently she broke -off in the midst of a sparkling tirade, laid her hand upon my arm, and -said: - -“Will you pardon me, gentlemen, but I have a brief word awaiting the ear -of Captain Grande,” and calmly she walked me off to the cabin door. - -“I presumed, perhaps too hastily, that you still wanted me, dear,” was -what she said. - -I dared not look straight at her, for I knew that if I did so my face -would be a flaunting proclamation of my worship. I could but say, in a -voice that strove for steadiness: - -“Beloved, beloved! have you done all this for me?” - -A happy mirth came into her voice as she answered: - -“No, Paul, not quite all for you! I had to think a little of a certain -good man, madly bent on marrying a woman who would, alas! (I know it too -well) have made him a most unpleasant wife. George Anderson will never -know what I saved him from. But _you_ may, Paul! Aren’t you a little bit -afraid?” - -I am well aware that in this supreme moment I betrayed no originality -whatever. I could only repeat myself, in expressions which I need not -set down. Trite as they were, however, she forgave them. - -“We have so much to talk about, dear,” she said, “but not now. We must -go back to the others; and I must take your cousin Marc aside as I have -done with you, so that this won’t look too strange. Does _he_ like -me—approve of me?” she asked anxiously. - -“Second only to his little Puritan he loves you,” said I. “He knows -everything.” - -Then, just as we turned back to the others, I whispered in her ear: - -“Be prepared for events to-night!” - -She gave me a startled look, understanding at once. Then indeed, as now, -whatever is in my mind she is apt to read as if it were an open book. - -“So soon? Oh, be careful for my sake!” - -I could give no answer, for by this, the cabin being small, we were -quite returned from our privacy. - -For perhaps two hours Yvonne entertained us, not only conversing herself -with a gracious wit that struck but to illumine, never to wound, but -calling forth a responsive alertness in her cavaliers. Captain Eliphalet -began to wonder at his own readiness of repartee and compliment. -Lieutenant Shafto forgot the perfect propriety of his ruffles, engrossed -for once in another than himself. Even my imperturbable Marc yielded in -some measure to the resistless bewilderment, and played the gallant with -a quaint, fatherly air that pleasured me. I, only, was the silent one. I -could but listen, intoxicated, speaking when I could not escape it, and -my ears averse to all words but those coming from her lips. - -By and by—I was vexed that his discretion should bring the moment so -soon—Marc made his adieux, insisting against much protest that he -desired to keep his welcome unworn for the morrow. I could do naught -save follow his example; but as I withdrew, Yvonne’s eyes held me so -that my feet in going moved like lead. The broad-bearded captain and the -impeccable lieutenant most civilly accompanied us to the door of our -prison. - -“This situation, gentlemen,” said Marc, with a smile of careless -amusement, “which your courtesy does so sweeten for us, is certainly not -without the relish of strangeness.” - -“It shall be made as little strange as lies in our power to make it, -sir,” replied Captain Eliphalet heartily; and we parted with all -expressions of esteem; not till their backs were turned upon us did we -extend our wrists for the irons, which the discreet guard had kept -hidden under the flap of his great-coat. - - - - - Chapter XXXVI - - Sword and Silk - - -That night the weather fell thick, and, the wind freshening suddenly, -the ship dropped anchor. Captain Eliphalet Wrye was not so familiar with -the reefs and tides of Fundy that he cared to navigate her waters in the -dark. This we considered very favourable to our enterprise; for the tide -running strongly, and the wind against it, kicked up a pother that made -the hold reëcho. - -The time agreed upon was toward three, when those asleep are heaviest. I -think that most of our men slept, but with that consciousness of events -impending which would bring them wide awake on the instant. Marc, I -know, lay sleeping like a child. But for me no sleep, no sleep indeed. I -could not spare a minute from the delight of thinking and dreaming. Here -I lay in irons, a captive, an exile,—but my beloved had come. - -“She has come, my beloved!” I kept saying over and over to myself. - -Then I tried planning for our future; but the morrow promised her -presence, and for the time I could not get my thoughts past that. There -was no need to discount future joy by drawing bills of dear -anticipation. But it was tonic to my brain to look back upon the -hopeless despair in which I had lain weltering so few hours before. Now -they seemed years away—and how I blessed their remoteness, those sick -hours of anguish! Yes, though I had not given up my purpose, I had -surely given up the hope that kept it alive. Then Mother Pêche’s -soothsaying over the lines of my palm came back to me: “_Your heart’s -desire is nigh your death of hope_!” - -Wonderful old woman! How came such wisdom to your simple heart, with no -teachers but herbs, and dews, and stillnesses of the open marsh, and -hill-whispers, and the unknown stars? Out of some deep truth you spoke, -surely; for even as my hope died, had not my heart’s desire come? And I -said to myself, “It is but a narrow and shallow heart that expects to -understand all it believes. Do we not walk as men blindfolded in the -citadel of mystery? What seem to us the large things and unquestionable -may, the half of them, be vain—and small, derided things an -uninterpreted message of truth!” - -My revery was broken by Marc laying free hands upon mine. - -“Are you awake?” he whispered. “The time has come. See! This is the way -to open them.” And very easily, as it seemed, he slipped the iron from -my wrists. - -“Feel!” he went on, in the same soft whisper. I followed his fingers in -the dimness. There was no light but the murk of a smoky lanthorn some -way off, where the guards sat dejectedly smoking,—and I caught the -method of unlocking the spring. “Free your next neighbour, and pass the -word along,” continued Marc; and I did so. It was all managed with -noiseless precision. - -In a very few minutes—which seemed an hour—there was a sneeze from the -furthermost corner of the hold, beyond the place where the guards sat. -It was not the most natural and easy sneeze in the world, but it served. -It was answered by another from the opposite corner. The shrill, silly -sound was yet in the air when the ominous form of long Philibert Trou -loomed high behind the sitting guards and fell upon one of them like -fate; while at the same moment, like a springing cat, the lithe figure -of La Mouche shot up at the other’s throat. - -For such skilled hands it was but a moment’s work, and no noise about -it. Like the rising of an army of spectres, every man came silently to -his feet. Seizing the musket of the nearest guard, where he lay -motionless, I glided to the hatch, just far enough ahead of Marc to get -my foot first on the ladder. - -As I reached the deck the sentry, not three paces distant, was just -turning. With a yell to warn his comrades he sprang at me. Nimbly I -avoided his bayonet thrust, and the butt of my musket brought him down. -I had reserved my fire for the possibility of a more dangerous -encounter. - -There were shouts along the deck—and shots—and I saw sailors running up, -and then more soldiers—and I sprang to meet them. But already Marc was -at my side, and a dozen, nay, a score, of my fellow-captives. In a -breath, as it were, the score doubled and trebled—the hold seemed to -spout them forth, so hotly they came. - -There were but few shots, and a fall or two with groans. The thing was -over before it was well begun, so perfect had been the surprise. We had -all who were on deck in irons, save for three slain and one grievously -wounded. Those who had been asleep in their bunks when the alarm was -given now promptly gave themselves up, soldiers and sailors alike, being -not mad enough to play out a lost game. Handcuffs were abundant, which -made our work the simpler. - -As I went forward, wondering where Shafto was this while, I was met by -La Mouche and two others leading a prisoner. It was Captain Eliphalet, -with blood on his face, sorely dazed, but undaunted. Indignation and -reproach so struggled within him that he could not for the moment find -speech. - -“Pardon, I beseech you, Captain Wrye,” I made haste to say, “the need -which has compelled me to make such rude return for your courtesy. -This,” and I tapped his irons with my finger, “is but for an hour or two -at most, till we get things on our ship fitly ordered. Then, believe me, -you will find that this is merely a somewhat abrupt reversal of the -positions of host and guest.” - -I fear that Captain Eliphalet’s reply was going to be a rude one, but if -so it was quenched at his lips. The door of the cabin opened, a bright -light streamed forth, and down it glided Yvonne in her white gown, the -black lace over her head. - -“Oh, Paul, what has happened? Are you—are you safe?” she asked -breathlessly, ‘twixt laughing and tears. The shooting and shouting had -aroused her roughly. - -“Quite safe, my dearest,” I whispered. “And—the ship is ours.” - -All that this meant flashed upon her, and her face flushed, her eyes -dilated. But before she found voice to welcome the great news, her -glance fell upon Captain Eliphalet’s blood-stained countenance, and her -joy faded into compassion. - -“Oh!” she cried, “you are _not_ wounded, surely, surely!” And she -pressed her handkerchief pitifully to the blood-spots. - -“It is nothing, nothing, mademoiselle, but a mere scratch, or bruise, -rather,” stammered Captain Eliphalet. Then she saw that his hands were -fettered. - -“Paul!” she exclaimed, turning upon me a face grown very white and -grave. “And he was so kind to me! How could you!” - -“As a matter of fact, I didn’t, Yvonne,” said I. “But this is what I am -going to do.” - -Slipping off the irons I tossed them into the sea. - -“Captain Wrye,” said I to him, with a bow, “I have much yet to do, and I -must not stay here any longer. May I commit to your charge for a little -while what is more precious than all else?” - -Yvonne thanked me with a look, and laid her hand on the captain’s arm. - -“We will dress your wound, monsieur,” said she. “Mother Pêche has a -wondrous skill in such matters.” And she led the captain away. - -By this Marc was come up, with a squad of his men fully armed. Some half -score approached the second cabin. A window opened, a thin stream of -fire flashed out, with a sharp report of a pistol; and a man fell, shot -through the head. Another report, with the red streak in the front of -it, and a tall Acadian threw up his arms, screamed chokingly, and -dropped across a coil of rope. - -The precise Lieutenant Shafto had awakened to the state of affairs. - -“Down with the door, men, before he can load again!” shouted Marc, -springing forward; and long Philibert picked up a light spar which lay -at hand, very well suited to the purpose. - -But there was no need of it. The door was thrown open, and in the light -from Yvonne’s cabin was revealed the form of the English officer. He -stood in his doorway, very angry and scornful, the point of his sword -thrust passionately against the deck in front of him. A fine and a brave -figure he was, as he stood there in his stockings, breeches, and fairly -be-ruffled shirt—for he had not just now taken time to perfect his -toilet with the customary care. In this attitude he paused for a second, -lightly springing his sword, and scowling upon us. - -“I must ask you to surrender, monsieur,” said Marc, advancing. “The ship -is in our hands. I shall be glad to accept your parole.” - -“I will not surrender!” he answered curtly. “If there be a gentleman -among you who can use a sword, I am willing to fight him. If not, I will -see how many more of this rabble I can take with me.” And he jerked his -head toward the two whom he had shot down. - -“I will cross swords with you,” I cried, getting ahead of Marc, “and -will count myself much honoured in meeting so brave a gentleman. But you -English took my sword from me, and up to the present have neglected to -give it back.” - -“I have swords, of course, monsieur,” he replied, his face lighting with -satisfaction as he stepped back into his cabin to get them. - -But some one else was not satisfied. Yvonne’s hands were on my arm—her -eyes, wide with terror, imploring mine. “Don’t! It will kill me, dear! -Oh, what madness! Have you no pity for me!” she gasped. - -I looked at her reassuringly, not liking to say there was no danger, -lest I should seem to boast; and so instant was her reading of my -thought that even as I looked the fear died out of her face. - -“It is nothing, dear heart. Ask Marc,” I whispered. She turned to him -with the question in her eyes. - -“Paul is the best sword in New France,” said Marc quietly, “not even -excepting my father, the Sieur de Briart.” - -Now so quickly was the confidence of my own heart transferred into the -heart of my beloved that she was no more afraid. Indeed, what she said -was: - -“You must not hurt him, Paul! He has been very nice to me!” and this in -a voice so clear that Shafto himself heard it as he came out with the -swords. It ruffled him, but he bowed low to her in acknowledgment of her -interest. - -“They are of the same length. Choose, monsieur!” said he, holding them -out to me. - -I took the nearest—and knew as soon as the hilt was in my hand that it -was an honest weapon, of English make, something slow in action and -lacking subtlety of response, but adequate to the present enterprise. -Lanthorns were brought, and so disposed by Marc’s orders that the light -should fall fairly for one as for the other. The Englishman had regained -his good temper,—or a civil semblance of it,—and marked the preparations -with approval. - -“You have had abundant experience, I perceive, in the arbitrament of -gentlemen,” said he. - -“My cousin has, in particular, monsieur,” replied Marc dryly. Whereupon -Mr. Shafto turned upon me a scrutiny of unaffected interest. - -A moment more, and the swords set up that thin and venomous whispering -of theirs. Now, what I am _not_ going to do, even to please Yvonne, -is—undertake to describe that combat. She wishes it, because under my -instruction she has learned to fence very cunningly herself. But to me -the affair was unpleasant, because I saw from the first a brave -gentleman, and a good enough swordsman as these English go, hopelessly -overmatched. I would not do him the discredit of seeming to play with -him. He fenced very hotly, too. He wanted blood, being bitter and -humiliated. After a few minutes of quick play I thought it best to prick -him a little sharply in the arm. The blood spurted scarlet over his -white sleeve; and I sprang back, dropping my point. - -“Are you satisfied, monsieur?” I asked. - -“No, never! Guard yourself, sir!” he cried angrily, taking two quick -steps after me. - -During the next two minutes or so he was so impetuous as to keep me -quite occupied; and I was about concluding to disarm him, when there -came a strange intervention. It was most irregular; but the wisest of -women seem to have small regard for points of stringency in masculine -etiquette. At a most knowingly calculated moment there descended between -us, entangling and diverting the points of our weapons,—what but a -flutter of black lace! - -“I will not have either of you defeated!” came Yvonne’s voice, gayly -imperious. “You shall _both_ of you surrender at once, to me! There is -no dishonour, gentlemen, in surrendering to a woman!” - -It was a most gracious thought on her part, to save a brave man from -humiliation; and my worship of her deepened, if that were possible. As -for the elegant Mr. Shafto, he was palpably taken aback, and glowered -rudely for a space of some seconds. Then he came to himself and accepted -the diversion with good grace. With a very low bow he presented his -sword-hilt to Yvonne, saying: - -“To you, and to you only, I yield myself a prisoner, Mademoiselle de -Lamourie,” - -Yvonne took the sword, examined it with gay concern on this side and on -that, tried it against the deck as she had seen him do, and then, -without so much as a glance at Marc or me for permission, gravely -returned it to him. - -“Keep it, monsieur,” she said. “I have no use for it at present; and I -trust to hold my prisoners whether they be armed or defenceless.” - -“That you will, mademoiselle, I’ll wager,” spoke up Captain Eliphalet, -just behind. - - - - - Chapter XXXVII - - Fire in Ice - - -Some while after, as in my passing to and fro I went by the cabin for -the fiftieth time, my expectation came true: the door opened, and -Yvonne, close wrapped in her great cloak, stood beside me. I drew her -under the lee of the cabin, where the bitter wind blew less witheringly. -The first of dawn was just creeping bleakly up the sky, and the ship was -under way. - -“You are cold, dear,” exclaimed Yvonne beneath her breath, catching my -hand in her two little warm ones; and, faith! I was, though I had not -had time to notice it till she bade me. The next moment, careless of the -eyes of La Mouche, who stood by the rail not ten paces off, she opened -her cloak, flung the folds of it about my neck, and drew my face down, -in that enchanted darkness, to the sweet warmth of hers. - -There were no words. What could those vain things avail in such a -moment, when our pulses beat together, and our souls met at the lips, -and in silence was plighted that great troth which shall last, it is my -faith, through other lives than this? Then she drew softly away, and, -with eyes cast down, left me, and went back into her cabin. - -I lifted my head. La Mouche stood by the rail, looking off across the -faintly lightening water. As I passed near him he turned and grasped my -hand hard. - -“I am most glad for you, my captain!” he said quietly. But I saw that my -joy was an emphasis to his own sorrow, and his very lips were grey for -remembrance of the woman who had stricken him. - - * * * * * - -When it was full daylight we could see the other ship, a white speck on -the horizon far ahead. Long before noon she was out of sight. The wind -favouring us all day, before sunset we arrived off the grim portal -through which the great river of St. John, named by Champlain, empties -forth its floods into the sea. The rocky ridges that fence the haven -were crested gloriously with rose and gold, and toward this inviting -harbourage we steered—not without misgivings, however, for we knew not -the channel or the current. In this strait we received unlooked-for aid. -Captain Eliphalet, excited by some error in the course which we were -shaping, and all in a tremble lest his loved ship fall upon a reef, -offered his services as pilot. They were at once accepted. We knew he -was as incapable of a treachery as his situation was of turning a -treachery to profit. Himself he took the wheel; and on the slack of tide -he steered us up to a windless anchorage at the very head of the -harbour, beside the ruins of an old fort. The only sign of life was the -huts of a few Acadian fishermen, so miserable as to have been quite -overlooked by the doom that had descended on their race. - -Our plan was to scatter the greater part of our company among the small -Acadian settlements up the river—at Jemseg, Pointe Ste. Anne, and -Medoctec; while the rest of us, the trained men who would be needed in -New France, accompanied by a half dozen women with daring and vitality -for such a journey, would make our way on sledges and snow-shoes -northward, over the Height of Land, down into the St. Lawrence valley, -and thence to Quebec. - -The two carronades on the deck of our ship we dropped into the harbour. -We helped ourselves to all the arms and ammunition, with tools for the -building of our sledges, and such clothing as our prisoners could well -spare. Of the ship’s stores we left enough to carry the ship safely to -Boston. Yvonne gave Lieutenant Shafto a letter for her father and -mother, which he undertook to forward to Halifax at the earliest -opportunity. Then, three days after our arrival in the St. John, we -loosed our captives every one, bade Captain Eliphalet a less eventful -remainder to his voyage, and turned our back upon the huts of the -fishermen. We crossed the Kennebeccasis River on the ice, where it joins -the St. John, just back of the ridge which forms the northern rampart of -the harbour. Thence we pushed straight up the main river, keeping close -along the eastern shore. - -The rough sledges which we had hastily thrown together were piled with -our stores. They carried also such of the women and children as were not -capable of enduring the march. The sledges ran easily on the level way -afforded by the river, which was now frozen to the depth of a foot. In -spots the ice was covered by a thin, hard-packed layer of snow; but for -the most part it had been swept clean by the wind. - -For my own part, I drew a light sledge, of which I had myself directed -the construction, that it might be comfortable for Yvonne. It _was_ -comfortable, with a back and arms, and well lined with blankets. But she -chose rather, for the most of the journey, to walk beside me, secretly -proud to show her activity and endurance. It was Mother Pêche who, under -strenuous protest, chiefly occupied my sledge. Her protests were vain -enough; for Yvonne told her quietly that if she would not let herself be -taken care of she would not trust her to face the Quebec journey, but -would leave her behind at Jemseg. Though the old dame was a witch, -Yvonne had the will to have her way; and protest ended. - -As we marched, a little aside from the main body, Yvonne now laying her -mittened hand upon my arm, and now drawing with me upon the sledge-rope, -we had exhaustless themes of converse, but also seasons for that -revealing silence when the great things get themselves uttered between -two souls. - -There were some practical matters, however, not without importance, -which silence was not competent to discuss. - -“Do you know any one at the Jemseg settlement, Paul?” she chanced to ask -me, that first day of our marching. - -“Yes,” said I, with significance, taking merciless advantage of the -question, “I know an excellent priest, dear heart!” - -She reddened, and turned upon me deep eyes of reproach. But I was not -abashed. - -“Am I too precipitate, sweet?” I asked. “But do not think so. I know you -will not. Consider all the strangeness of the situation, most dear, and -give me the right to guard you, to keep you, to show openly my reverence -and my love.” - -As she did not reply, it was clear enough that she found my reasoning -cogent. I went on, with a kind of singing elation in my brain: - -“Truly, in my eyes, you are my wife now, as—do you remember?—I dared to -call you that night as we came over the ridge, I to prison, you to—But -no! I will not think of that. In deed and in truth, dear, I believe that -God joined together us two, inalienably and forever, not months ago, but -years ago—that day in the orchard, when our spirits met in our eyes. The -material part of us was slow in awaking to the comprehension of that -mystery, but”— - -“Speak for yourself, Paul,” she interrupted, with tantalizing -suggestion. - -I stopped short, forgetting all my eloquence. - -“And you loved me then—and knew it!” I exclaimed, in a voice poignant -with the realization of lost years. - -She came very close against my side, and held my arm tightly, as she -said, in a voice ‘twixt mocking and caressing: - -“I think I _might_ have known it, Paul, had you helped me the least -little bit—had the material part of you, let us say, been the least bit -quicker of comprehension.” - -She forbore to hint at all that might have been different; but the -thought of it kept me long silent. - -On the next day, about sunset, we reached the Jemseg settlement. That -same day Yvonne became my wife. - - - - - Chapter XXXVIII - - Of Long Felicity, Brief Word - - -“How many years, dear heart, since we made that winter journey, thou and -I, from Jemseg to Quebec, through the illimitable snows?” - -“Ten!” answers Yvonne; and the great eyes which she lifts from her -writing and flashes gayly upon me grow tender with sweet remembrance. -During those ten years the destinies of thrones have shifted strangely -in the kaleidoscope of fate. Empires have changed hands. New France has -been erased from the New World. Louisbourg has been levelled to a sheep -pasture. Quebec has proved no more impregnable. The flag of England -flies over Canada. My uncle, the Sieur de Briart, sleeps in a glorious -grave, having fallen with Montcalm on the Plains of Abraham. My cousin -Marc and I, having fought and bled for France in all the last battles, -and lain for months in an English hospital, have accepted the new -masters of our country and been confirmed in our little estates beside -the Ottawa. - -Redeeming my promise to Grûl, I have aided him in his vengeance on the -Black Abbé—a strange, dark tale which I may one day set down, if ever -time makes it less painful to my memory. - -Much, then, have I endured in these ten years. But the remembrance of it -appears to me but as a tinted glass, through which I am enabled to -contemplate the full sun of my happiness. - -Yvonne in these ten years has changed but to grow more beautiful. -Bodily, there was, I think, no room for that change; but growth is the -law of such a spirit as hers, and so into her perfect eyes, wells of -light as of old, has come a deeper and more immeasurable wisdom. As to -this perennial potency of her beauty, I know that I am not deluded by my -passion; for I perceive the homage it compels from all who come within -its beneficent influence. Even her mother, a laughingly malicious -critic, tells me that my eyes see true in this—(for Giles de Lamourie, -having sold his ample acres in Nova Scotia, and forgiven ancient -grudges, has come here to live with Yvonne). Father Fafard, when he -visits us from his Bonaventure parish, says the same; but _his_ eyes are -blind with loving prejudice. When we go into Montreal for the months of -December and January, exchanging for a little the quiet of our country -home for the glitter of rout and function, no other court so choice, so -loyal, and so revering as that which Yvonne gathers about her. The wise, -drawn by her wit, are held fast by her beauty; while the gay, drawn by -her beauty, rise to a worship of her wit and worth. - -Yvonne’s small hands are white and alive and restless as on that day in -the Grand Pré orchard when, prying into the heart of the apple-blossom, -they pried into and set fast hold upon the strings of my heart also. But -this life of mine, given into the keeping of their sweet restlessness, -has found the secret of rest. - -One thing more of her, and I have done with this narrative; for they who -live blest have little need or power to depict their happiness. It seems -to me, in looking back and forward, that my wife delights particularly -in setting at naught the cheap wisdom of the maxim-mongers. How -continually are men heard to declare, with the tongue of Sir Oracle: “We -don’t woo what is well won”! - -But Yvonne, well won these ten years back, I woo again continually, and -our daily life together is never without the spur of fresh interest and -further possibilities. - -“The familiar is held cheap,” say the disappointed; and “Use dulls the -edge of passion,” say they whose passion has never known the edge which -finely tempered spirits take on. - -But familiarity, the crucial intimacy of day by day companionship, only -reveals to me in Yvonne the richer reasons for my reverence; while -passion grows but the more poignant as it realizes the exhaustless -depths of the nature which responds to it. - -The mean poverty of these maxims I had half suspected even before I knew -Yvonne. But one, more universally accepted, to the effect that -“Anticipation beggars reality,” had ever caused me a certain fear, lest -it might prove true. The husband of my dear love has fathomed its -falsehood, and anticipation, in my case, was little moderate in its -demands. If there be any germ of truth under that long-triumphant lie, -then the reason we two have not discovered it must be sought in another -life than this. This life cannot be the full reality. Even so, my -confident faith is that the lying adage will but seem to lie the more -shamelessly under a fuller revelation. Many times have I told Yvonne -that to me one life seemed not enough for love of her. - -As I conclude, I look across the room to where the beautiful, dark, -proud head bends over her desk; for she has outstripped me in my own art -of letters, and only my old achievements with the sword enable me to -maintain that dominance which the husband, even of Yvonne, ought to -have. - -She will not approve these last few pages. She will demand their -erasure, declaring them extravagant and an offence against the reticence -of true art. - -But not one line will I expunge, for they are true. - - - THE END. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors. - 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's A Sister to Evangeline, by Charles G. D. Roberts - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SISTER TO EVANGELINE *** - -***** This file should be named 53610-0.txt or 53610-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/6/1/53610/ - -Produced by Richard Tonsing, Larry B. 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