THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE

                                   BY

                         GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL

                               AUTHOR OF
     “_In the Way_,” “_Lone Point_,” “_An Unwilling Guest_,” _etc._


                 *        *        *        *        *


                          GABRIEL THE ACADIAN

                                   BY

                        EDITH M. NICHOLL BOWYER


                              PHILADELPHIA
                  AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY
                          1420 Chestnut Street




                         Copyright 1902 by the
                  AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY
                 *        *        *        *        *
                       Published September, 1902


                      From the Society’s own Press




                                Contents


                     The Angel of His Presence

                     Gabriel the Acadian




                       THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE

                                   BY

                         GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL




                       THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE

                        =LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS=

              “‘_I have just discovered who you are
                and felt as if I would like to shake
                hands with you_’”                      11

              “_She lingered as if transfixed before
                the picture_”                          23

              “_He dropped it and it shivered into
                fragments at his feet_”                38

              “_‘Who is it?’ he asked sharply and
                suspiciously_”                         45

              “_She stood behind his big leather
                chair, her hands clasped together
                against one cheek_”                    55

              “_He threw away his cigar and
                disappeared behind the shrubbery_”     67

              “_The ‘ladye of high degree’ . . . saw
                them standing also_”                   79




          _The Angel of his presence saved them._
          _In his love and in his pity he redeemed them._
                                    —_Old Testament_




                       THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE


                               CHAPTER I

John Wentworth Stanley stood on the deck of an Atlantic Liner looking
off to sea and meditating. The line of smoke that floated away from his
costly cigar followed the line of smoke from the steamer as if it were
doing honest work to help get Mr. Stanley to New York. The sea in the
distance was sparkling and monotonous and the horizon line empty and
bright, but Mr. Stanley seemed to see before him the hazy outlines of
New York as they would appear in about twenty-four hours more, if all
went well. And of course all would go well. He had no doubt of that.
Everything had always gone well for him.

Especially well had been these last two years of travel and study
abroad. He reflected with satisfaction upon the knowledge and experience
he had gained in his own special lines, upon the polish he had acquired,
and he glanced over himself, metaphorically speaking, and found no fault
in John Wentworth Stanley. He was not too Parisian in his deferential
manner, he was not too English in his deliberation, neither was he, that
worst of all traits in his eyes, too American in his bluntness. He had
acquired something from each nation, and considered that the combined
result was good. It is a comfortable feeling to be satisfied with one’s
self.

Nor had he been shut entirely out of the higher circles of foreign
society. There were pleasant memories of delightful evenings within the
noble walls of exclusive homes, of dinners and other enjoyable occasions
with great personages where he had been an honored guest. When he
thought of this, he raised his chest an inch higher and stood just a
little straighter.

There was also a memory picture of one, perhaps more, but notably of one
“ladye of high degree,” who had not shown indifference to his various
charms. It was pleasant to feel that one could if one would. In due time
he would consider this question more carefully. In the near future this
lady was to visit America. He had promised himself and her the pleasure
of showing her a few of his own country’s attractions. And,—well, he
might go abroad again after that on business.

His attention was not entirely distracted by his vision of the “ladye of
high degree” from looking upon his old homeland and anticipating the
scenes and the probable experiences that would be his in a few hours.
Two years seemed a long time when he looked back upon it, though it had
been brief in the passing. He would doubtless find changes, but there
had been changes in him also. He was older, his tastes were—what should
he say—developed? He would not take pleasure in the same way that he
had taken it when he left, perhaps. He had learned that there were other
things—things if not better, at least more cultured and less
old-fashioned than his former diversions. Of course he did not despise
his up-bringing, nor his homeland, but he had other interests now as
well, which would take much of his time. He had been from home long
enough for the place he left to have closed behind him, and he would
have no difficulty in staying “dropped out.” He expected to spend much
of his time in New York. Of course he would make his headquarters at
home, where his father and mother were living, in a small city within a
short distance of America’s metropolis.

His man—he had picked up an excellent one while traveling through
Scotland—had gone on ahead to unpack and put in place the various
objects of art, etc., that he had gathered on his travels. He had not as
yet become so accustomed to the man that he could not do without him
from day to day, and had found it convenient to send him home on the
ship ahead of his own.

He wondered what his home-coming would be like. His father and mother
would of course be glad to see him and give him their own welcome. But
even with them he could not feel that he was coming home to a place
where he was indispensable. They had other children, his brothers and
sisters, married and living not far from home. Of course they would be
glad to have him back, all of them, but they had been happy enough
without him, knowing he was happy. But in town, while he had friends,
there were none whom he eagerly looked forward to meeting. He had
attended school there of course, and in later years, after his return
from college, had gone into the society of the place, the literary clubs
and tennis clubs and, to a degree, into church work. He had indeed been
quite enthusiastic in church work at one time, had helped to start a
mission Sunday-school in a quarter where it was much needed, and acted
as superintendent up to the time when he had gone abroad. He smiled to
himself as he thought of his “boyish enthusiasm” as he termed it, and
turned his thoughts to his more intelligent manhood. Of course he would
now have no time for such things. His work in the world was to be of a
graver sort, to deal with science and art and literature. He was done
with childish things.

He was interrupted just here by one of the passengers. “I beg your
pardon, I have just discovered who you are and felt as if I would like
to shake hands with you.”

The speaker was a plain, elderly man with fine features and an earnest
face. Mr. Stanley had noticed him casually several times and remarked to
himself that that man would be quite fine looking if he would only pay a
little more attention to his personal appearance. Not that he was not
neatly dressed, nor that his handsome, wavy, iron gray hair was not
carefully brushed; but somehow John Wentworth Stanley had acquired
during his stay abroad a nice discrimination in toilet matters, and
liked to see a man with his trousers creased or not creased, as the
height of the mode might demand, and classed him, involuntarily,
accordingly.

But he turned in surprise as the stranger addressed him. What possible
business could this man have with him, and what had he done that should
make the man want to shake hands with him?

[Illustration: “‘I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED WHO YOU ARE AND FELT AS IF I
WOULD LIKE TO SHAKE HANDS WITH YOU.’”]

Mr. Stanley was courteous always, and he at once threw away the end of
his finished cigar and accepted the proffered hand graciously, with just
a tinge of his foreign-acquired nonchalance.

“My name is Manning. You don’t know me. I came to live at Cliveden
shortly after you went abroad, but I assure you, I have heard much of
you and your good work. I wonder I did not know you, Mr. Stanley, from
your resemblance to your mother,” the stranger added, looking into the
young man’s eyes with his own keen, gray ones. He did not add that one
thing which had kept him from recognizing his identity had been that he
did not in the least resemble the Mr. Stanley he had been led to expect.

Mr. Manning owned to himself in the privacy of his stateroom afterward
that he was just a little disappointed in the man, though he was
handsome, and had a good face, but he did seem to be more of a man of
the world than he had expected to find him. However, no trace of this
was written in his kindly, interested face, as John Stanley endeavored
to master the situation and discover what all this meant.

“Oh, I know all about your work in Cliveden, Mr. Stanley. I have been
interested in the Forest Hill Mission from my first residence there, and
what I did not learn for myself my little girl told me. She is a great
worker, and as she has no mother, she makes me her confidant, so I hear
all the stories of the trials and conflicts of her Sunday-school class,
and among other things I constantly hear of this one and that one who
owe their Christian experience to the efforts of the founder of the
mission and its first superintendent. Your crown will be rich in jewels.
I shall never forget Joe Andrews’ face when he told me the story of how
you came to him Sunday after Sunday, and said ‘Joe, aren’t you ready to
be a Christian yet?’ and how time after time he would shake his head,
and he says your face would grow so sad.” The elder gentleman looked
closely at the clean-shaven, cultured face before him to trace those
lines which proved him to be the same man he was speaking of, and could
not quite understand their absence, but went on, “and you would say,
‘Joe, I shall not give you up. I am praying for you every day. Don’t
forget that.’ And then when he finally could not hold out any longer and
came to Christ, he says you were so glad, and he cannot forget how good
it was of you to care for him and to stick to him that way. He said your
face looked just as if the sun were shining on it the day he united with
the church. That was a wonderful work you did there. It is marvelous how
it has grown. Those boys of yours will repay the work you put upon them
some day. Nearly all of the original members of your own class are now
earnest Christians, and they cannot get done telling about what you were
to them. My little girl writes me every mail more about it.”

John Stanley suddenly felt like a person who is lifted out of his
present life and set down in a former existence. All his tastes, his
friends, his pursuits, his surroundings, during the past two years had
been utterly foreign to the work about which the stranger had been
speaking. He had become so engrossed in his new life that he had
actually forgotten the old. Not forgotten it in the sense that he was
not aware of its facts, but rather forgotten his joy in it. And he stood
astonished and bewildered, hardly knowing how to enter into the
conversation, so utterly out of harmony with its spirit did he find
himself. As the stranger told the story of Joe Andrews there rushed over
him the memory of it all: the boy’s dogged face; his own interest
awakened one day during his teaching of the lesson when he caught an
answering gleam of interest in the boy’s eye, and was seized with a
desire to make Jesus Christ a real, living person to that boy’s heart;
his watching of the kindling spark in that sluggish soul, and how little
by little it grew, till one night the boy came to his home when there
were guests present, and called for him, and he had gone out with him
into the dewy night under the stars and sat down with him on the front
piazza shaded by the vines, hoping and praying that this might be his
opportunity to say the word that should lead the boy to Christ, when
behold, he found that Joe had come to tell him, solemnly as though he
were taking the oath of his life, that he now made the decision for
Christ and hereafter would serve him, no matter what he wanted him to
do. A strange thrill came with the memory of his own joy over that
redeemed soul, and how it had lingered with him as he went back among
his mother’s guests, and how it would break out in a joyous smile now
and then till one of the guests remarked, “John, you seem to be
unusually happy to-night for some reason.” How vividly it all came back
now when the vein of memory was once opened. Incident after incident
came to mind, and again he felt or remembered that thrill of joy when a
soul says, “You have helped me to find Christ.”

Mr. Manning was talking of his daughter. John had a dim idea that she
was a little girl, but he did not stop to question. He was remembering.
And there was a strange mingling of feelings. His new character had so
thoroughly impressed its importance upon him that he felt embarrassed in
the face of what he used to be. Strangely enough the first thing that
came to mind was, What would the “ladye of high degree” think if she
knew all this? She would laugh. Ah! That would hurt worse than anything
she could do. He winced almost visibly under her fancied merriment. It
was worse than if she had looked grave, or sneered, or argued, or
anything else. He could not bear to be laughed at, especially in his new
rôle. And somehow his old self and his new did not seem to fit rightly
together. But then the new love of the world and his new tastes came in
with all the power of a new affection and asserted themselves, and he
straightened up haughtily and told himself that of course he need not be
ashamed of his boyhood. He had not done anything but good. He should be
proud of that, and especially so as he would probably not come in
contact with such work and such people again. He had more important
things to attend to.

Not that he said all this, or thought it in so many words; it passed
through his mind like phantoms chasing one another. Outwardly he was the
polished, courteous gentleman, listening attentively to what this father
was saying about his daughter, though really he cared little about her.
Did Mr. Stanley know that she had taken his former Sabbath-school class
and that there were many new members, among them some young men from the
foundries? No, he did not. He searched in his memory and found a
floating sentence from one of his mother’s letters about a young woman
who had consented to take his class till his return and who was doing
good work. It had been written, perhaps, a year ago, and it had not
concerned him much at the time as he was so engrossed in his study of
the architecture of the south of France. He recalled it now just in time
to tell the father how his mother had written him about the class, and
so save his reputation as a Sunday-school teacher. It transpired that
the daughter who had taken the class and the little girl the stranger so
constantly referred to as writing him letters about things were one and
the same. He wondered vaguely what kind of a little girl was able to
teach a class of young men, but his mind was more concerned with
something else now.

It appeared that the former mission where he had been superintendent had
grown into a live Sunday-school, and that they were looking for his
home-coming with great joy and expectation. How could such a thing be
other than disconcerting to the man he had become? He had no time to be
bothered with his former life. He had his life-work to attend to, which
was not—and now he began to feel irritated—mission Sunday-schools.
That was all well enough for his boyhood, but now—and besides there was
the “ladye of high degree.”

Perhaps the man of experience saw the stiffening of the shoulders and
the upper lip and divined the thoughts of the other. His heart sank for
his daughter and her boys, and the mission, and their plans for his
home-coming, and he made up his mind that secret or no secret, this man
must be told a little of the joy of sacrifice that had been going on for
him, for surely he could not have been the man that he had been, and not
have enough of goodness left in his heart to respond to that story, no
matter what he had become. And so he told him as much of the story his
daughter had written him as he thought necessary, and John Wentworth
Stanley thanked him and tried to show that he was properly appreciative
of the honor that was to be shown him, and tried not to show his
annoyance about it all to the stranger, and got away as soon as
possible, after a few polite exchanges of farewells for the evening, and
went to his stateroom. Arrived there he seated himself on the side of
his berth, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and sat
scowling out of the porthole with anything but a cultured manner.

“Confound it all!” he muttered to himself. “I suppose it’s got to be
gone through with some way for mother’s sake and after they’ve made so
much fuss about it all. I can see it’s all that girl’s getting up; some
silly girl that thinks she’s going to become prominent by this sort of
thing. Going to give me a present! And I’ve got to go up there and be
bored to death by a speech probably, and then get up and be made a fool
of while they present me with a pickle dish or a pair of slippers or
something of the sort. It’s awfully trying. And they needn’t think I’m
going back to that kind of thing, for I’m not. I’ll move to New York
first. I wish I had stayed in France! I wish I had never worked in
Forest Hill Mission!”

Oh, John Stanley! Sorry you ever labored and prayed for those immortal
souls, and wrought into your crown imperishable jewels that shall shine
for you through all eternity!


                               CHAPTER II

They stood in the gallery of one of New York’s most famous art stores;
seven stalwart boys—young men, perhaps, you would call them—all with
an attempt at “dress up,” and with them Margaret Manning, slender and
grave and sweet. They were chaperoned by Mrs. Ketchum, a charming little
woman who knew a great deal about social laws and customs, and always
spoke of things by their latest names, if possible, and who took the
lead in most of the talk by virtue of her position in society and her
supposed knowledge of art. There were also Mrs. Brown, a plain woman who
felt deeply the responsibility of the occasion, and Mr. Talcut, a little
man who was shrewd in business and who came along to see that they did
not get cheated. These constituted the committee to select a present for
the home-returning superintendent of the Forest Hill Mission
Sunday-school. It was a large committee and rather too heterogeneous to
come to a quick decision, but its size had seemed necessary. Margaret
Manning was on it, of course. That had been a settled thing from the
beginning. There would not have been any such present, probably, if
Margaret had not suggested it and helped to raise the money till their
fund went away up above their highest hopes.

The seven boys were in her Sunday-school class, and no one of them could
get the consent of himself to make so momentous a decision for the rest
of the class without the other six to help. Not that these seven were
her entire class by any means, but the class had elected to send seven
from their own number, so seven had come. Strictly speaking, only one
was on the committee, but he depended upon the advice of the other six
to aid him.

“Now, Mr. Thorpe,” said Mrs. Ketchum in her easy, familiar manner, “we
want something fine, you know. It’s to hang in his ‘den.’ His mother has
just been refitting his den, and we thought it would be quite
appropriate for us to get him a fine picture for the wall.”

The preliminaries had been gone through with. Mr. Thorpe knew the
Stanley family slightly, and was therefore somewhat fitted to help in
the selection of a picture that would suit the taste of one of its
members. He had led them to the end of the large, well-lighted room,
placed before them an easel, and motioned them to sit down.

The seven boys, however, were not accustomed to such things, and they
remained standing, listening and looking with all their ears and eyes.
Somehow, as Mrs. Ketchum stated matters, they did not feel quite as much
to belong to this committee as before. What, for instance, could Mrs.
Ketchum mean by Mr. Stanley’s “den”? They had dim visions of Daniel and
the lions, and the man who fell among thieves, but they had not time to
reflect over this, for Mr. Thorpe was bringing forward pictures.

“As it’s a Sunday-school superintendent, perhaps something religious
would be appropriate. You might look at these first, anyway,” and he put
before them a large etching whose wonder and beauty held them silent as
they gazed. It was a new picture of the Lord’s Supper by a great artist,
and the influence of the picture was so great that for a few moments
they looked and forgot their own affairs. The faces were so marvelously
portrayed that they could but know each disciple, and felt that the hand
which had drawn the Master’s face must have been inspired.

“It is more expensive than you wanted to buy, but still it is a fine
thing and worth the money, and perhaps as it is for a church, I might
make a reduction, that is, somewhat, if you like it better than anything
else.”

Mrs. Ketchum lowered her lorgnette with a dissatisfied expression,
though her face and voice were duly appreciative. She really knew a fine
thing when she saw it.

“It is wonderful, and you are very kind, Mr. Thorpe; but do you not
think that perhaps it is a little, just a little, well—gloomy—that is,
solemn—well—for a den, you know?” and she laughed uneasily.

Mr. Thorpe was accustomed to being all things to all men. With an easy
manner he laughed understandingly.

“Yes? Well, I thought so myself, but then I didn’t know how you would
feel about it. It would seem hardly appropriate, now you think of it,
for a room where men go to smoke and talk. Well, just all of you step
around this side of the room, please, and I’ll show you another style of
picture.”

They followed obediently, Mrs. Ketchum murmuring something more about
the inappropriateness of the picture for a den, and the seven boys
making the best of their way among the easels and over Mrs. Ketchum’s
train. All but Margaret Manning. She lingered as if transfixed before
the picture. Perhaps she had not even heard what Mrs. Ketchum had said.
Two of the boys hoped so in whispers to one another.

“Say, Joe,” he whispered in a low grumble, “I forgot all about Mr.
Stanley’s smoking. She——” with a nod toward the silent, pre-occupied
woman still standing in front of the picture, “she won’t like that.
Maybe he don’t do it any more. I don’t reckon ’twould be hard fer him to
quit.”

Every one of those seven boys had given up the use of tobacco to please
their teacher, Miss Manning.

Other pictures were forthcoming. There were landscapes and seascapes,
flowers and animals, children and wood nymphs, dancing in extraordinary
attitudes. The boys wondered that so many pictures could be made. They
wondered and looked and grew weary with the unusual sight, and wished to
go home and get rested, and did not in the least know which they liked.
They were bewildered. Where was Miss Manning? She would tell them which
to choose, for their part of the choice was a very important part to
them, and in their own minds they were the principal part of the
committee.

[Illustration: “‘I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED WHO YOU ARE AND FELT AS IF I
WOULD LIKE TO SHAKE HANDS WITH YOU.’”]

Miss Manning left the great picture by and by and came over to where the
others sat, looking with them at picture after picture, hearing prices
and painters discussed, and the merits of this and that work of art by
Mrs. Ketchum and Mr. Talcut, whose sole idea of art was expressed in the
price thereof, and who knew no more about the true worth of pictures
than he knew about the moon. Then she left the others and wandered back
to the quiet end of the room where stood that wonderful picture. There
the boys one by one drifted back to her and sat or stood about her
quietly, feeling the spell of the picture themselves, understanding in
part at least her mood and why she did not feel like talking. They
waited respectfully with uncovered heads, half bowed, looking, feeling
instinctively the sacredness of the theme of the picture. Four of them
were professed Christians, and the other three were just beginning to
understand what a privilege it was to follow Christ.

Untaught and uncouth as they were, they took the faces for likenesses,
and Christ’s life and work on earth became at once to them a living
thing that they could see and understand. They looked at John and longed
to be like him, so near to the Master and to receive that look of love.
They knew Peter and thought they recognized several other disciples, for
the Sunday-school lessons had been of late as vivid for them as mere
words can paint the life of Christ. They seemed themselves to stand
within the heavy arch of stone over that table, so long ago, and to be
sitting at the table, his disciples, some of them unworthy, but still
there. They had been helped to this by what Miss Manning had said the
first Sunday she took the class, when the lesson had been of Jesus and
of some talks he had had with his disciples. She had told them that as
there were just twelve of them in the class she could not help sometimes
thinking of them as if they were the twelve disciples, especially as one
of them was named John and another Andrew, and she wanted them to try to
feel that these lessons were for them; that Jesus was sitting there in
their class each Sabbath speaking these words to them and calling them
to him.

The rest of the committee were coming toward them, calling to Miss
Manning in merry, appealing voices. She looked up to answer, and the
boys who stood near her saw that her eyes were full of tears, and more
than one of them turned to hide and brush away an answering tear that
seemed to come from somewhere in his throat and choke him.

“Come, Margaret,” called Mrs. Ketchum, “come and tell us which you
choose. We’ve narrowed it down to three, and are pretty well decided
which one of the three we like best.”

Margaret Manning arose reluctantly and followed them, the boys looking
on and wondering. She looked at each of the three. One was the
aforementioned nymph’s dance, another was a beautiful woman’s head, and
the third was a flock of children romping with a cart and a dog and some
roses. Margaret turned from them disappointed, and looked back toward
the other picture.

“I don’t like any of them, Mrs. Ketchum, but the first one. Oh, I do
think that is the one. Please come and look at it again.”

“Why, my dear,” fluttered Mrs. Ketchum disturbedly, “I thought we
settled it that that picture was too, too—not quite appropriate for a
den, you know.”

But her words were lost, for the others had gone forward under the
skylight to where the grand picture stood, and were once more under the
spell of those wonderful eyes of the pictured Master.

“It is a real nice picture,” spoke up Mrs. Brown. She was fond of
Margaret Manning, though she did not know much about art. She had been
elected from the woman’s Bible class, and had been rather overpowered by
Mrs. Ketchum, but she felt that now she ought to stand up for her friend
Margaret. If _she_ wanted that picture, that picture it should be.

“How much did you say you would give us that for, Mr. Thorpe?” said the
sharp little voice of Mr. Talcut.

Mr. Thorpe courteously mentioned the figures.

“That’s only ten dollars more’n we’ve got,” spoke up the hoarse voice of
one of the seven unexpectedly. It was Joe, who felt that he owed his
salvation to the young superintendent’s earnest efforts in his behalf.

“I say we’d better get it. Ten dollars ain’t much. We boys can go that
much. I’ll go it myself somehow if the others don’t.”

“Well, really, ladies, I suppose it’s a very good bargain,” said Mr.
Talcut rubbing his hands and smiling.

“Then we’ll take it,” said Joe, nodding decidedly to Mr. Thorpe; “I’ll
go the other ten dollars, and the boys can help, if they like.”

“But really Margaret, my dear,” said Mrs. Ketchum quite distressed, “a
_den_, don’t you know, is not a place for——”

But the others were all saying it was just the picture, and she was not
heard. Mr. Talcut was giving the address and orders about the sending.
None of them seemed to realize that Mrs. Ketchum had not given her
consent, and she, poor lady, had to gracefully accept the situation.

“Well, it’s really a very fine thing, I suppose,” she said at last,
somewhat hesitatingly, and putting up her lorgnette to take a critical
look. “I don’t admire that style of architecture, and that table-cloth
isn’t put on very gracefully; it would have been more artistic draped a
little; but it’s really very fine, and quite new, you say, and of course
the artist is irreproachable. I think Mr. Stanley will appreciate it.”

But she sighed a little disappointedly, and wished she had been able to
coax them to take the nymphs. She would take pains to let Mr. Stanley
know that this had not been her choice. The idea of having to give in to
those great boors of boys! But then it had all been Margaret Manning’s
fault. She was such a little fanatic. She might have known that it would
not do to let her see a religious picture first.


                              CHAPTER III

It was Margaret Manning’s suggestion that it should be presented
quietly. Some of the others were disappointed. Mrs. Ketchum was one of
the most irate about it.

“The idea! After the school had raked and scraped together the money,
that they should not have the pleasure of seeing it presented! It’s a
shame! Margaret Manning has some of the most backwoods’ notions I ever
heard of. It isn’t doing things up right at all. There ought to be a
speech from some one who knows how to say the right thing; my husband
could have done it, and would if he’d been asked. But no, Margaret
Manning says it must be hung on his wall, and so there it hangs, and
none of us to get the benefit. I declare it is a shame! I wish I had
refused to serve on that committee. I hate to have my name mixed up in
it the way things have gone.” So said Mrs. Ketchum as she sat back in
her dim and fashionable parlor and sighed.

But the seven boys ruled things, and they ruled them in the way Miss
Manning suggested; and moreover, Mrs. Brown and Mr. Talcut had gone over
to the enemy completely since the purchase, the enemy being Miss
Manning. Mr. Talcut rubbed his hands admiringly, and said Miss Manning
was an exceedingly shrewd young woman, that she had an eye for business.
That picture was the best bargain in that whole store.

But Margaret went on her way serenely, not knowing her power nor
enjoying her triumph. Albeit she was pleased in her heart with the
picture, and she thought that her seven boys had been the true selectors
of it. She wrote in her fine, even hand, that was like her in its lovely
daintiness, the words the committee told her to write—which she had
suggested—on a white card to accompany the picture. It read, “To our
beloved superintendent, with a joyous welcome home, from the entire
school of the Forest Hill Mission.”

The Stanley home stood in fine, large grounds, with turf smooth as
velvet and grand old forest trees all about. The house was large,
old-fashioned, and ugly, but the rooms were magnificent in size, and
filled with all the comforts money could buy. On one side, just off the
large library and connected with the hall, had been built an addition, a
beautiful modern room filled with nooks and corners and unexpected
bay-windows, which afforded views in at least three directions because
of the peculiar angles at which they were set. In one corner was a
carved oak spiral staircase by which one could ascend to the airy
sleeping room over-head if he did not choose to go through the hall and
ascend the common stair. One side of the room and various other
unexpected bits of wall were turned into bookcases sunk in the masonry
and covered by glazed doors. The bay-window seats were heavily
upholstered in leather, and so were all the chairs and the luxurious
couch. Nearly one entire end of the room was filled by the great
fireplace, the tiling of which had been especially designed for it. In a
niche built for it with a fine arrangement for light, both by day or
night, stood a large desk. It was a model working room for a gentleman.
And this addition had been built by the senior Mr. Stanley for his son
when he should return to take up the practical work of architecture, for
which he had been preparing himself for some years.

It was here that the great picture was brought and hung over the
fireplace, where it could look down upon the entire room. It was hung
just the day before John Wentworth Stanley’s man arrived with his
master’s goods and chattels and began to unpack and dispose things
according to his best judgment.

John Stanley’s mother had come in to superintend the hanging of the
picture and had looked at it a long time when she was left alone, and
finally had knelt shyly beside the great new leather chair and offered a
silent little prayer for the home-coming son. She was an undemonstrative
woman, and this act seemed rather theatrical when she thought of it
afterward. What if a servant had opened the door and seen her!
Nevertheless she felt glad she had dedicated the room, and she was glad
that the picture was what it was. With that Ketchum woman on the
committee she had feared what the result might be when she had had the
scheme whispered to her. Somebody must have fine taste. Perhaps it was
that dainty, lily-faced young girl who seemed to be so interested in
John’s Sunday-school class. The mother was busy in her home world and
did not go into church work much. She was getting old and her children
and grandchildren were all about her, absorbing her time and thought.

The man came in from the piazza that surrounded the bay window and
reached around to the long French window at the side, where he had been
unpacking a box. He placed a silver-mounted smoking set on a small
mahogany table. Then he stood back to survey the effect. Presently he
came in with some fine cut glass, a small decanter heavily mounted in
silver and glasses to match. He went out and came back with their tray.
Having dusted them off carefully and arranged them on the tray, he
placed it first on the handsome broad mantel, and as before stood back
to take a survey. He knew the set was a choice example of artistic work
along this line. It was presented to his master while he was visiting in
the home of a nobleman in token of his friendship and to commemorate
something or other, the man did not exactly know what. But he did not
like the effect on the mantel. He glanced uneasily up at the picture. In
a dim way he felt the incongruity. He scowled at the picture and
wondered why they put it there. It should have been hung in the hall or
some out-of-the-way place. It was more suited for a church than anywhere
else, he told himself. He placed the decanter tray on the little table
at the other side of the fireplace from the smoking set, and stood back
again. It looked well there. He raised his eyes defiantly to the
picture, and met the full, strong, sweet gaze of the pictured eyes of
the Master. The man lowered his eyes and turned away, disturbed, he knew
not why. He was not a man who cared about such things, neither was he
one accustomed to reason. He went out to the piazza again to his
unpacking, trying to think of something else. It wasn’t his picture nor
his decanter anyway, and he whistled a home tune and wondered why he had
come to this country. He didn’t seem to feel quite his usual pride this
morning in the fact that he knew his business. When he finally unpacked
the wicker-covered demijohn of real old Scotch whisky that had
accompanied the decanter, he carried it through the room and deposited
it in the little corner cupboard behind the chimney, shut the door and
locked it with a click, and went out again without so much as raising
his eyes. All that day he avoided looking at that picture over the
mantelpiece, and he grew quite happy in his work again and quite
self-satisfied, and felt with a sort of superstitious fear that if he
looked at it his happiness would depart.

There were other rare articles that he had to unpack and dispose of, and
once he came to a large, handsome picture, a sporting scene in water
colors by a celebrated artist. That now, would be the very thing to hang
over the mantel in place of the picture already there. He even went so
far as to suggest to Mrs. Stanley that he make the change, but she
coldly told him to leave the picture where it was, as it was a gift, and
showed him the envelope to place on the mantel directly under the
picture, which contained the card from the donors.

So the man left the room at last, somewhat dissatisfied, but feeling
that he had done the best he could. The night passed, the day came, and
with it the new master of the new room.

“It’s really a magnificent thing, mother,” he said, as he stood in front
of the great picture after, having admired the room and shown his
delight in all they had done for him. “I’m delighted to have it. I saw
the original on the other side. And it was good taste of them to give it
quietly in this way too. But there is a sense in which this is quite
embarrassing. They will expect so much, you know, and of course I
haven’t time for this sort of thing now.”

“Well, I thought something ought to be done, my son,” responded the
mother, “so I sent out invitations for the whole school for a reception
here next week. That is, I have them ready. They are not sent out, but
are waiting your approval. Tuesday will be a free evening. What do you
think?”

John Stanley scowled and sighed.

“Oh, I suppose that’s the easiest way to get out of it now they’ve sent
me this. It will be an awful bore, but then it’ll be over. I shall
scarcely know how to carry myself among them, I fear, I’ve been out of
this line so long, and they fancy me so virtuous,” and he smiled and
shrugged his handsome shoulders.

“But John dear, you mustn’t feel in that way. They really think a great
deal of you,” said his mother, smiling indulgently upon him.

“Oh, it’s all right; go ahead, mother. Make it something fine while
you’re about it. Give them quite a spread you know. Some of them don’t
get many treats, I suppose,” and he sank down in one of the luxurious
chairs and looked about him with pleasure.

“This is nice, mother,” he said; “so good of you and father to think of
it. I can do great things here. The room is an inspiration in itself. It
is a poem in architecture.”

Then the mother left him awhile to his thoughts and he began to piece
together his life, that portion he had left behind him across the water,
and this new piece, a part of the old, that he had come to take up
again. There hovered on the margin of his mind the image of the “ladye
of high degree,” and he looked out about on his domain with satisfaction
at thought of her. At least she would see that people in this country
could do things as well as in hers.

Then by some strange line of thought he remembered his worriment of
yesterday about that present, and how he had thought of her laugh if she
should know of it. A slight feeling of pleasure passed over him; even in
this she could find no fault. It was fine and costly and a work of
genius. He need not be ashamed even if some one should say to her that
the picture was presented to him by a mission class grateful for what he
had done for it. He began to swell with a sense of importance at the
thought. It was rather a nice thing, this present, after all. He changed
his position that he might examine the picture more carefully at his
leisure.

The fire that his mother had caused to be lighted to take off the chill
of the summer evening and complete the welcome of the room, sent out a
ruddy glow and threw into high relief the rich, dark gloss of the frame
and the wonderful picture. It was as if the sombre, stone-arched room
opened directly from his own, and he saw the living forms of the Twelve
gathered around that table with the Master in the midst. But the Master
was looking straight at him—at him, John Wentworth Stanley,
self-satisfied gentleman of the world that he was, looking at him and
away from the other disciples. Down through all the ages those grave,
kind, sad, sweet eyes looked him through and through, and seemed to sift
his life, his every action, till things that he had done now and
yesterday, and last year, that he had forgotten, and even when he was a
little boy, seemed to start out and look him in the face behind the
shadows of those solid stones of that upper chamber. The more he looked
the more he wondered at the power the picture seemed to have. He looked
away to prove it, and he knew the eyes were following his.

The rosy glow of the firelight seemed to be caught and crystallized in a
thousand sparkles on one side of the fire. He looked in passing and knew
what the sparkles were, the fine crystal points of that cut glass
decanter. He had forgotten its existence until now, since the day he had
had it packed. He knew it was a beautiful thing in its way, but he had
not intended that it should be thus displayed. He hoped his mother had
not seen it. He would look at it and then put it away, that is, pretty
soon. Now his eyes were held by the eyes of his Master. Yes, his Master,
for he had owned his name and called himself a Christian, and no matter
what other things had come in to fill his mind, he had no wish to give
up the “name to live.” And yet he was conscious, strangely, abnormally
conscious of that decanter. His Master seemed to be looking at it too,
and to be inquiring of him how he came to have it in his possession. For
the first time he was conscious, painfully so, that he had never given
its donor any cause to think that such a gift would be less acceptable
to him than something else. His Master had understood that too, he felt
sure. He was annoyed that he could frame no excuse for himself, as he
had so easily done when the gift first reached him. He had even been
confident that he would be able to explain it to his mother so that she
would be rather pleased with the gift than otherwise, strong temperance
woman though he knew her to be. Now all his reasons had fled. The eyes
of his Master, his kind, loving, sorrowing Master were upon him. He
began to be irritated at the picture. He arose and seized the decanter
hastily, to put it somewhere out of sight, just where he had not
thought.

Now the officious Thomas, who knew his place and his work so well, had
placed in the new, freshly washed decanter a small quantity of the rare
old Scotch whisky that had come with it. Thomas knew good whisky when he
saw—that is, tasted—it, and he was proud of a master to whom such a
gift had been given. John Stanley did not expect to find anything in his
decanter until he put it there himself, or gave orders to that effect.
He was new to the ways of a “man” who so well understood his business.
As he jerked the offending article toward him some of this whisky
spilled out of the top that had perhaps not been firmly closed after
Thomas had fully tested the whisky. Its fumes so astonished its owner
that, he knew not how, he dropped it and it shivered into fragments at
his feet on the dull red tiles of the hearth.

Annoyed beyond measure, and wondering why his hand had been so unsteady,
he rang the bell for Thomas and ordered him to take away the fragments
and wipe the whisky from the hearth. Then he seated himself once more
till it was done. And all the time those eyes, so sad and reproachful
now, were looking through and through him.

“Thomas!” he spoke sharply, and the man came about face suddenly with
the broom and dustpan in hand on which glittered the crystals of
delicate cutting. “Where is the rest of that—that stuff?”

Thomas understood. He swung open the little door at the side of the
chimney. “Right here at hand, sir! Shall I pour you out some, sir?” he
said, as he lifted the demijohn.

[Illustration: “HE DROPPED IT AND IT SHIVERED INTO FRAGMENTS AT HIS
  FEET.”]

John Stanley’s entire face flushed with shame. His impulse was severely
to rebuke the impertinence, nay the insult, of the servant to one who
had always been known as a temperance man. But he reflected that the
servant was a stranger to his ways, and that he himself had perhaps
given the man reason to think that it would be acceptable by the very
fact that he had these things among his personal effects. Then too, his
eyes had caught the look of the Master as he raised them to answer, and
he could not speak that harsh word quite in that tone with Jesus looking
at him.

He waited to clear his throat, and answered in a quieter tone, though
still severely: “No; you may take it out and throw it away. I never use
it.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Thomas impassively; but he marveled. Nevertheless
he forgave his master, and took the demijohn to his own room. He was
willing to be humble enough to have it thrown away on him. But as he
passed the servant’s piazza, the cook who sat resting from her day’s
labors there and planning for the morrow’s _menu_, heard him mutter:

“As shure as I live, it’s the picter. It’s got some kind o’ a spell.”


                               CHAPTER IV

After Thomas had left the room with the demijohn, his master seemed
relieved. He began to walk up and down his room and hum an air from the
German opera. He wanted to forget the unpleasant occurrence. After all,
he was glad the hateful, beautiful thing was broken. It was no one’s
fault particularly, and now it was out of the way and would not need to
be explained. He walked about, still humming and looking at his room,
and still that picture seemed to follow and be a part of his
consciousness wherever he went. It certainly was well hung, and gave the
strong impression of being a part of the room itself. He looked at it
critically from a new point of view, and as he faced it once more he was
in the upper chamber and seemed to hear his Master saying, “Yet a little
while, and the world seeth me no more”; and he realized that he was in
the presence of the scene of the end of his Master’s mission. He walked
back to the fireplace seeking for something to turn his thoughts away,
and passing the table where stood his elegantly mounted smoking set, he
decided to smoke. It was about his usual hour for his bedtime smoke,
anyway. He selected a cigar from those Thomas had set out and lighted it
with one of the matches in the silver match safe, and for an instant
turned with a feeling of lazy, delicious luxury in the use of his new
room and all its appliances. Unconsciously he seated himself again
before the fire in the great leather chair, and began to puff the smoke
into dreamy shapes and let his thoughts wander as he closed his eyes.

Suppose, ah, suppose that some one, say the “ladye of high degree,”
should be there, should belong there, and should come and stand behind
his chair. He could see the graceful pose of her fine figure. She might
reach over and touch his hair and laugh lightly. He tried to imagine it,
but in spite of him the laugh rang out in his thoughts scornfully like a
sharp, silver bell that belonged to some one else. He glanced over his
shoulder at the imagined face, but it looked cold above the smoke. She
did not mind smoke. He had seen her face behind a wreath of smoke
several times. It seemed a natural setting. But the dream seemed an
empty one. He raised his head and settled it back at a new angle. How
rosy the light was as it played on the hearth and how glad he was to be
at home again. That was enough for to-night. The “ladye of high degree”
might stay in her home across the sea for this time. He was content.
Then he raised his eyes to the picture above without knowing it, and
there he was smoking at the supper table of the Lord. At least so he
felt it to be. He had always been scrupulously careful never to smoke in
or about a church. He used to give long, earnest lectures on the subject
to some of the boys of the mission who would smoke cigarettes and pipes
on the steps of the church before service. He remembered them now with
satisfaction, and he also remembered a murmured, jeering sound that had
arisen from the corner where the very worst boys sat, which had been
suppressed by his friends, but which had cut at the time, and which he
had always wondered over a little. He had seen no inconsistency in
speaking so to the boys in view of his own actions. But now, as he
looked at that picture he felt as though he were smoking in church with
the service going on. The smoke actually hid his Master’s face. He took
down his cigar and looked up with a feeling of apology, but this was
involuntary. His irritation was rising again. The idea of a picture
upsetting him so! He must be tired or his nerves unsettled. There was no
more harm in smoking in front of that picture than before any other.
“Confound that picture!” he said, as he rose and walked over to the bay
window, “I’ll have it hung somewhere else to-morrow. I won’t have the
thing around. No, it’ll have to be left here till after that reception,
I suppose; but after that it shall go. Such a consummate nuisance!”

He stood looking out of the open window with a scowl. He reflected that
it was a strange thing for him to be so affected by a picture, a mere
imagination of the brain. He would not let it be so. He would overcome
it. Then he turned and tramped deliberately up and down that room,
smoking away as hard as he could, and when he thought his equilibrium
was restored, he raised his eyes to the picture as he passed, just
casually as any one might who had never thought of it before. His eyes
fell and he went on, back and forth, looking every time at the picture,
and every time the eyes of that central figure watched him with that
same sad, loving look. At last he went to the window again and angrily
threw up the screen, threw his half-smoked cigar far out into the
shrubbery of the garden, saying as he did so, “Confound it all!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was the evening before the reception. It was growing toward nine
o’clock, and John Stanley had retired to his wing to watch the fire and
consider what a fool he was becoming. He had not smoked in that room
since the first night of his return. He had not yielded to such weakness
all at once nor with the consent of himself. He had thought at first
that he really chose to walk in the garden or smoke on the side piazza,
but as the days went by he began to see that he was avoiding his own new
room. And it was all because of that picture. He glanced revengefully in
the direction where it hung. He did not look at it willingly now if he
could help it. His elegant smoking set was reposing in the chimney
cupboard, locked there with a vicious click of the key by the hand of
the young owner himself. And it was not only smoking, but other things
that the picture affected. There for instance was the pack of cards he
had placed upon the table in their unique case of dainty mosaic design.
He had been obliged to put them elsewhere. They seemed out of place. Not
that he felt ashamed of the cards. On the contrary he had expected to be
quite proud of the accomplishment of playing well which he had acquired
abroad, having never been particularly led in that direction by his
surroundings before he had left home. Was this room becoming a church
that he could not do as he pleased? Then there had been a sketch or two
and a bit of statuary, which he had brought in his trunk because they
had been overlooked in the packing of the other things. That morning he
brought them down to his room, but the large picture refused to have
them there. There was no harm in the sketches, only they did not fit
into the same wall with the great picture, there was no harmony in their
themes. The statuary was associated with heathenism and wickedness, ’tis
true, but it was beautiful and would have looked wonderfully well on the
mantel against the rich, dark red of the dull tiles, but not under that
picture. It was becoming a bondage, that picture, and after to-morrow
night he would banish it to—where? Not his bedroom, for it would work
its spell there as well.

Just here there came a tap on the window-sill, followed by a hoarse,
half-shy whisper:

“Mr. Stanley, ken we come in?”

He looked up startled. The voice had a familiar note in it, but he did
not recognize the two tall, lank figures outside in the darkness, clad
in cheap best clothes and with an air of mingled self-depreciation and
self-respect.

“Who is it?” he asked sharply and suspiciously.

[Illustration: “‘WHO IS IT?’ HE ASKED, SHARPLY AND SUSPICIOUSLY.”]

“It’s me, Mr. Stanley; Joe Andrews. You ain’t forgot me yet, I know. And
this one’s my friend, Bert; you know him all right too. May we come in
here? We don’t want to go to the front door and make trouble with the
door bell and see folks; we thought maybe you’d just let us come in
where you was. We hung around till we found your room. We knowed the new
part was yours, ‘cause your father told the committee, you know, when
they went to tell about the picture.”

Light began to dawn on the young man. Certainly he remembered Joe
Andrews, and had meant to hunt him up some day and tell him he was glad
to hear he was doing well and living right, but he was in no mood to see
him to-night. Why could he not have waited until to-morrow night when
the others were to come? Was not that enough? But of course he wanted to
get a word of thanks all his own. It had been on his tongue to tell Joe
he was unusually busy to-night, and would he come another time, or wait
till to-morrow, but the remembrance of the picture made that seem
ungracious. He would let them in a few minutes. They probably wished to
report that they had seen the picture in the room before the general
view should be given, so he unfastened the heavy French plate window and
let the two in, turning up as he did so the lights in the room, so that
the picture might be seen.

They came in, lank and awkward, as though their best clothes someway
hurt them, and they did not know what to do with their feet and the
chairs. They did not sit down at first, but stood awkwardly in single
file, looking as if they wished they were out now they were in. Their
eyes went immediately to the picture. It was the way of that picture to
draw all eyes that entered the room, and John Stanley noted this with
the same growing irritation he had felt all day. But over their faces
there grew that softened look of wonder and awe and amaze, and to John
Stanley’s surprise, of deep-seated, answering love to the love in the
eyes of the picture. He looked at the picture himself now, and his fancy
made it seem that the Master was looking at these two well pleased.
Could it be that he was better pleased with these two ignorant boys than
with him, John Stanley, polished gentleman and cultured Christian that
he trusted he was?

He looked at Joe again and was reminded of the softened look of deep
purpose the night Joe had told him beneath the vines of his intention to
serve Christ, and now standing in the presence of the boy again and
remembering it all vividly, as he had not done before, there swept over
him the thrill of delight again that a soul had been saved. His heart,
long unused to such emotions, felt weak, and he sat down and motioned
the boys to do the same. It would seem that the sight of the picture had
braced up the two to whatever mission theirs had been, for their faces
were set in steady purpose, though it was evident that this mission was
embarrassing. They looked at one another helplessly as if each hoped the
other would begin, and at last Joe plunged in.

“Mr. Stanley, you ben so good to us we thought ’twas only fair to you we
should tell you. That is, we thought you’d like it, and anyway, maybe
you wouldn’t take it amiss.”

John Stanley’s heart was kind, and he had been deeply interested in this
boy once. It all came back to him now, and he felt a strong desire to
help him on, though he wondered what could be the nature of his errand.

Joe caught his breath and went on. “You see she don’t know about it.
She’s heard so much of you, and she never heard that, not even when they
was talking about the den and all at the store, she was just lookin’ at
the picture and Him,” raising his eyes reverently to the picture on the
wall, “and we never thought to tell her afore, and her so set against
it. And we thought anyway afterward maybe you’d quit. Some do. We all
did, but that was her doin’s. But we thought you’d like to know, and if
you had quit she needn’t never be told at all, and if you hadn’t, why we
thought maybe ‘twouldn’t be nothin’ for you to quit now, ‘fore she ever
knew about it.”

The slow red was stealing up into the face of John Stanley. He was
utterly at a loss to understand what this meant, and yet he felt that he
was being arraigned. And in such a way! So humbly and by such almost
adoring arraigners that he felt it would be foolish and wrong to give
way to any feeling of irritation, or indignation, or even offended
dignity on his part.

“I do not understand, Joe,” he said at last, looking from one to another
of the two boys who seemed too wretched to care to live longer. “Who is
she? And what is it that she does not know, and that you want me to
‘quit’? And why should it be anything to her, whoever she is, what I
do?”

“Why it’s her, Miss Manning—Margaret Manning—our teacher.” Joe spoke
the name slowly, as if he loved it and revered it; “and it’s that we
want you to—that is, we want her to—to like you, you know. And it’s
the—the—I can’t most bear to say it, ‘cause maybe you don’t do it any
more,” and Joe looked up with eyes like a beseeching dog.

“It’s the smokin’,” broke in Bert huskily, rising. “Come on, Joe, we’ve
done what we ‘greed to do; now ‘tain’t no more of our business. I say,
come on!” and he bolted through the window shamefacedly.

Joe rose and going up to Mr. Stanley laid hold of his unwilling hand and
choked out: “You won’t take it hard of me, will you? You’ve done so much
fer me, an’ I kind of thought I ought to tell you, but now since I seen
yer face I think maybe I had no business. Good-night,” and with a face
that looked as if he had been caught in the act of stealing, Joe
followed his friend through the window and was lost in the deep shadows
outside.

John Stanley stood still where the two had left him. If two robbers had
suddenly come in upon him and quietly stolen his watch and diamond stud
and ring and left him standing thus, he could not have looked more
astonished. Where had been his usual ready anger that it did not rise
and overpower these two impudent young puppies, ignorant as pigs, that
they should presume to dictate to him, a Christian gentleman, what
habits he should have? And all because some straitlaced old maid, or
silly chit of a girl, who loved power, did not like something. Where was
his manhood that he had stood and let himself be insulted, be it ever so
humbly, by boys who were not fit for him to wipe his feet upon? His
kindling eyes lifted unexpectedly to the picture. The Master was
watching him from his quiet table under the arches of stone. He stood a
minute under the gaze and then he turned the lights all out and sat down
in the dark. The fire was out too, and only the deep red glow behind the
coals made a little lighting of the darkness. And there in the dark the
boy Joe’s face came back clearly and he felt sorry he had not spoken
some word of comfort to the wretched fellow who felt so keenly the
meaning of what he had done. There had been love for him in Joe’s look
and he could not be angry with him now he remembered that.

Bit by bit the winter of his work for Joe came back, little details that
he did not suppose he ever should recall, but which had seemed filled
with so much meaning then because he had been working for a soul’s
salvation and with the divine love for souls in his heart. What joy he
had that winter! How sorry he had been to leave it all and go away. Now
he came to think of it, he had never been so truly happy since. Oh, for
that joy over again! Oh, to take pleasure in prayer as he had done in
those days! What was this that was sweeping over him? Whence came this
sudden dissatisfaction with himself? He tried to be angry with the two
boys for their part in the matter, and to laugh at himself for being
influenced by them, but still he could not put it away.

A stick in the fire fell apart and scattered a shower of sparks about,
blazing up into a brief glow. The room was illuminated just for an
instant and the face of the Christ shone out clearly before the silent
man sitting in front of the picture. Then the fire died out and the room
was dark and only the sound of the settling coals broke the stillness.
He seemed to be alone with Christ, face to face, with his heart open to
his Lord. He could not shrink back now nor put in other thoughts. The
time to face the change in himself had come and he was facing it alone
with his God.


                               CHAPTER V

It was the next evening, and the Forest Hill Mission had assembled in
full force. They were there, from little Mrs. Brown in her black
percale, even to Mrs. Ketchum, who had pocketed her pride, and in a
low-necked gown with a long train was making the most of her position on
the committee. She arranged herself to “receive” with John Stanley and
his mother, though she ignored the fact that Mrs. Brown and “those seven
hobbledehoy boys” were also on the committee. Occasionally she deplored
the fact that Miss Manning had not come, that she might also stand in a
place of honor, but in her heart she was glad that Miss Manning was not
present to divide the honors with herself. It appeared that Mr. Stanley
was delighted with the picture, had seen its original abroad, and knew
its artist. Such being the case, Mrs. Ketchum was delighted to take all
the honor of having selected the picture, and had it not been for those
truthtelling, enlightening seven boys, John Stanley might never have
known to this day Margaret Manning’s part in it.

None of the central group saw Margaret Manning slip silently in past the
servant at the door, as they stood laughing and chatting among
themselves after having shaken hands perfunctorily with the awkward,
embarrassed procession headed by Mr. Talcut and the young minister who
had recently come to the place.

When Margaret came down stairs she paused a moment in the hall; but as
she saw they were all talking, she went quietly on into the new wing
that had been for the time deserted by the company, and placed herself
in front of the picture. She had spoken to Mrs. Stanley, who had been
called upstairs to the dressing room for a moment just as she came in,
and so did not feel obliged to go and greet the group of receivers at
once. Besides, she wanted to have another good look at the picture
before she should go among the people, and so lose this opportunity of
seeing it alone.

From the first view it had been a great delight to Margaret Manning. She
had never before seen a picture of her Master that quite came up to her
idea of what a human representation of his face should express. This one
did. At least it satisfied her as well as she imagined any picture of
him, fashioned from the fancy of a man’s brain, could do. And she was
glad to find herself alone with it that she might study it more closely
and throw her own soul into the past of the scene before her.

She had stood looking and thinking for some minutes thus when she heard
a quick step at the door, not a sound as of one who had been walking
down the broad highly-polished floor of the hallway, but the quick
movement of a foot after one has been standing. She looked up and saw
John Stanley coming forward with an unmistakable look of interest and
admiration on his face.

He had made an errand to his library for a book to show to the minister
in order to get a little alleviation from Mrs. Ketchum’s persistent
monopolization. He had promised to loan the book to the minister, but
there had been no necessity for giving it to him that minute, nor even
that evening. As he walked down the hall he saw a figure standing in his
library, so absorbed in contemplating the picture that its owner did not
turn nor seem to be aware of his coming. She was slender and graceful
and young. He could see that from the distance, but as he came to the
doorway and paused unconsciously to look at the vision she made, he saw
that she was also beautiful. Not with the ordinary beauty of the
ordinary fashionable girl with whom he was acquainted, but with a clear,
pure, high-minded beauty whose loveliness was not merely of the outward
form and coloring, but an expression of beauty of spirit.

She was dressed in white with a knot of black velvet ribbon here and
there. She stood behind his big leather chair, her hands clasped
together against one cheek and her elbows resting on the wide leather
back. There were golden lights in her brown hair. Her eyes were looking
earnestly at the picture, her whole attitude reminded him of a famous
picture he had seen in Paris. He could but pause and watch it before
either of them became self-conscious.

[Illustration: “SHE STOOD BEHIND HIS BIG LEATHER CHAIR, HER HANDS CLASPED
TOGETHER AGAINST ONE CHEEK.”]

There was in her intent look of devotion a something akin to the look he
had seen the night before in the face of the boy Joe. He recognized it
at once, and a feeling half of envy shot through him. Would that such a
look might belong to his own face. But the remembrance of Joe brought
another thought. Instantly he knew that this was Margaret Manning. With
the knowledge came also the consciousness that he stood staring at her
and must do so no more. He moved then and took that quick step which
startled her and made her look toward him. As he came forward, he seemed
to remember how he had sat in that chair smoking a few nights before,
and how the vision of the “ladye of high degree” had stood where this
young girl now was standing, only he knew somehow at a glance the
superiority of this living presence.

A flush at the remembrance of his visitors of the night before and their
errand crossed his face, and he glanced instinctively toward the chimney
cupboard to see if the door was safely locked.

“I beg your pardon.” he said, coming forward. “I hope I do not disturb
you. I came for a book. This must be Miss Manning, I think. How comes it
that I have not had the pleasure of an introduction? They told me you
had not come. Yes, I met your father on the steamer coming over. Is he
present this evening?”

It was the easy, graceful tone and way he had, the same that had
elicited the notice of the “ladye of high degree,” only somehow now he
had an instinctive feeling that it would take more than a tone and a
manner to charm this young woman, and as she turned her clear eyes upon
him and smiled, the feeling grew that she was worth charming.

He began to understand the admiration of those awkward boys and the
feeling that had prompted their visit of the night before, and to
consider himself honored since he had a part in their admiration.

Margaret Manning was prepared to receive him as a friend. Had she not
heard great things of him? And she knew him at once. There was a fine
photogravure of him given by his mother at the request of the
school—and unknown to himself—hanging in the main room of the Forest
Hill Mission.

Their conversation turned almost immediately upon the picture. John
Stanley told how he had seen the original and its artist abroad, and how
proud he was to be the owner of this copy. The disagreeable experiences
he had passed through on account of it seemed to have slipped from his
mind for the time being.

She listened with interest, the fine, intelligent play of expression on
her face which made it ever an inspiration to talk with her.

“How you will enjoy reading over the whole account of the Last Supper
right where you can look at that face,” she said wistfully, looking up
at the picture. “It seems to me I can almost hear him saying, ‘Peace I
leave with you, my peace I give unto you.’”

He looked at her wonderingly, and saw the mark of that peace which
passeth understanding upon her forehead, and again there appeared to him
in startling contrast his vision of the “ladye of high degree,” and he
pondered it afterward in his heart.

“‘And this is life eternal, that they might know thee, the only true
God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.’ He said that in the upper
room,” she mused, and after a moment, “was it then too, that he said,
‘For I have given you an example that ye should do as I have done to
you’? I can’t quite remember,” and her eyes roved instinctively about
the elegantly furnished room in apparent search for something.

He divined her wish at once, and courteously went in search of a Bible,
but in his haste and confusion could not lay his hand upon one
immediately. He murmured some apology about not having unpacked all his
books yet, but felt ashamed as soon as the words were uttered, for he
knew in his heart the young girl before him would have unpacked her
Bible among the very first articles.

At last he found a little, old-fashioned, fine-print Bible tucked in a
corner of a bookcase. It had been given him when he was a child by some
Sunday-school teacher and forgotten long ago. He brought it now, and
with her assistance found the place.

“How I should enjoy studying this with the picture,” said the girl, as
she waited for him to turn to the chapter.

“And why not?” he asked. “It would be a great pleasure to have you feel
free to come and study this picture as often as you like. And if I might
be permitted to be present and share in the study it would be doubly
delightful.”

It was with the small open Bible on the chairback between them that the
file of awkward boys discovered them as they came down the hall, hoping
to find an empty and unembarrassing room where they might take refuge.
They paused as by common consent, and stood back in the shadow of the
hall _portière_, as if the place were too sacred for them to more than
approach its entrance. Their two earthly admirations were conversing
together, the Bible between them, and the wonderful picture looking down
upon them. They stole silent, worshipful glances into the room and were
glad.

Then came Mrs. Ketchum with rustling, perfumed robes and scattered
dismay into their midst and broke up the brief and pleasant
_tête-à-tête_ to her own satisfaction and the discomfiture of all
concerned.


                               CHAPTER VI

They were all gone at last, and the house was settling to quiet. John
Stanley went to his room, shut his door, and sat down to think.

It had not been the unpleasant occasion to which he had looked forward.
He had not even been bored. He was astonished to find himself regarding
the evening not only with satisfaction, but also with an unusual degree
of exhilaration. It did seem strange to him, now that he thought about
it, but it was true.

New interests were stirring within him. Or were they old ones? He had
gathered that group of boys about him with their teacher, after Mrs.
Ketchum had broken up his quiet talk with the teacher, and had talked
with them about the places he visited in the Holy Land, dwelling at some
length upon the small details of what he had seen in Jerusalem, and the
probable scene of events connected with the picture.

He had grown interested as he saw the interest of his audience. He
realized that he must have talked well. Was it the intent gaze of those
bright, keen-eyed boys, listening and glancing now and again toward the
picture with new interest, as they heard of the city and its streets
where this scene was laid, that gave him inspiration? Or had his
inspiration come from that other rapt, sweet face, with earnest eyes
fixed on the picture, and yet showing by an occasional glance at the
speaker that she was listening and liked it?

Yes, it had been a happy evening, and all over too quickly. He would
have liked to escort Miss Manning to her home, but her pony phaeton,
driven by a faithful old servant, came for her, so he missed that
pleasure.

He found himself planning ways in which he might often meet this
charming young woman. And strange to say, the mission with its various
services stood out pleasantly in his mind as a means to this end. Had he
forgotten his firm resolution of a few days agone, that he would have no
more to do with that mission in any capacity whatever?

If this question occurred to him he waived it without excuse. He was
pledged to attend the session of the school for the next Sabbath anyway,
to give in more elaborate form the talk about the picture and the scenes
in Jerusalem of which he had spoken to the boys. It had been Miss
Manning’s work, this promise, of course. She had said how grand it would
be to have him to tell the whole school what he had told her class, and
had immediately interviewed the present superintendent, who had been
only too delighted to accept the suggestion.

And now he sat by his fire, and with somewhat different feelings from
those he had experienced a few evenings before, thought over his old
life and his new. Strangely enough the “ladye of high degree” came no
longer to his thoughts, but instead there stood in shadow behind the
leather chair a slender, girlish figure with an earnest face and eyes,
and by and by he gave himself up to contemplating that, and he wondered
no longer that the boys had given up many things to please her. He would
not find it so very hard to do the same.

How earnest she had been! What a world of new meaning seemed to be
invested in the sacred scene of that picture after she had been talking
about it. He had followed up her desire to read the account with it in
view, and begged her most eagerly to come and read it and let him be a
humble listener, offering also in a wistful tone, which showed plainly
that he hoped she would accept the former, to let her have the picture
at her home for a time.

It would be very pleasant to read anything, even the Bible, with this
interesting young person and study the workings of her mind. He could
see that she was unusual. He must carefully study the subject so as not
to be behind her in Bible lore, for it was likely she knew all about it,
and he did not wish to be ashamed before her. He reached over to the
table where he had laid the little fine-print Bible they had been
consulting earlier in the evening. It had been so long since he had made
a regular business of reading his Bible that he scarcely knew where to
turn to find the right passages again, but after fluttering the leaves a
few minutes he again came to the place and read: “Now when the even was
come, he sat down with the twelve. And as they did eat, he said, Verily
I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.”

The young man stopped reading, looking up at the picture involuntarily,
and then dropped his eyes to the fire. What was it that brought that
verse home to himself? Had he in any sense betrayed his Lord? Was it
only the natural inquiry of the truthful soul on hearing those words
from the Master and on looking into his eyes to say sorrowfully “Lord,
is it I?” or was there some reason for it in his own life that made him
sit there, hour after hour, while the bright coals faded, and the ashes
dropped away and lay still and white upon the hearth?

Thomas, the man, looked silently in once or twice, and marveled to find
his master reading what seemed to be a Bible, and muttered “That
pictur,” to himself as he went back to his vigil. At last he ventured to
open the door and say in a respectful tone, “Did you call me, sir?”
which roused the master somewhat to the time of night, and moved him to
tell his man to go to bed and he would put out the lights.

The days that followed were filled with things quite different from what
John Stanley had planned on his return voyage. He made a good start in
his business, and settled into regular working hours, it is true; but in
his times of leisure he quite forgot that he had intended to have
nothing to do with the mission people. He spent three evenings in
helping to cover Sunday-school library books and paste labels into
singing books. Prosaic work and much beneath him he would have
considered it a short time ago, but he came home each time from it with
an exhilaration of mind such as he had never experienced from any of the
whist parties he had attended. It is true there were some young men and
young women also pasting labels whose society was uninteresting, but he
looked upon even those with leniency. Were they not all animated by one
common object, the good work for the mission? And there was also present
and pasting with the others, with deft fingers and quiet grace, that one
young girl around whom all the others seemed to gather and center as
naturally as flowers turn to the sun. She seemed to be an inspiration to
all the others. John Stanley had not yet confessed that she was an
inspiration to himself. He only admitted that her society was helpful
and enjoyable, and he really longed to have her come and read those
chapters over with him. Just how to manage this had been a puzzle.
Whenever he spoke of it the young lady thanked him demurely, and said
she would like to come and look at the picture some time; but he had a
feeling that she would not come soon, and would be sure he was not at
home then before she ventured. This was right, of course. It was not the
thing, even in America, for a young woman to call upon a young man even
to read the Bible with him. He must overcome this obstacle. Having
reached this conclusion he called in his mother to assist.

“By the way, mother,” he said the next evening at dinner, “I met a very
agreeable gentleman on the voyage over, a Mr. Manning. He is the father
of the Miss Manning who was here the other evening, I believe. Do you
know them? I wish you would have them to dinner some night. I would like
to show him some courtesy.”

The mother smiled and assented. It was easy for her to do nice little
social kindnesses. And so it was arranged.

After dinner it was an easy thing for John Stanley to slip away to the
library with Margaret Manning, where they two sat down together before
the picture, this time with a large, fine Oxford edition of the Bible to
read from.

That was an evening which to John Stanley was memorable through the rest
of his life. He had carefully studied the chapters himself, and thought
he had searched out from the best commentators all the bright new
thoughts concerning the events that the imagination and wisdom of man
had set down in books, but he found that his companion had studied on
her knees, and that while she was not lacking either book knowledge or
appreciation of what he had to say, she yet was able to open to him a
deeper spiritual insight. When she was gone, and he sat alone in his
room once more, he felt that it had been glorified by her presence. He
lingered long before that picture with searchings of heart that meant
much for his future life, and before he left the room he knelt and
consecrated himself as never before.

In those days there were evening meetings in the mission and he went.
There was no question in his mind about going; he went gladly, and felt
honored when Mr. Manning was unable to escort his daughter and he was
allowed to take his place. There was a nutting excursion for the school,
and he and Miss Manning took care of the little ones together. When it
was over he reflected that he had never enjoyed a nutting party more,
not even when he was a care-free boy.

It came about gradually that he gave up smoking. Not that he had at any
given time sat down and deliberately decided to do so, at least not
until he found that he had almost done so. There was always some meeting
or engagement at which he hoped to meet Miss Manning, and instinctively
he shrank from having her know that he smoked, mindful of what his
evening visitors had told him. At first he fell into the habit of
smoking in the early morning as he walked in the garden, but once while
thus engaged he saw the young woman coming down the street, and he threw
away his cigar and disappeared behind the shrubbery, annoyed at himself
that he was doing something of which he seemed to be ashamed. He wanted
to walk to the fence and speak to her as she passed by, but he was sure
the odor of smoke would cling to him. Little by little he left off
smoking lest she would detect the odor about him. Once they had a brief
conversation on the subject, she taking it for granted that he agreed
with her, and some one came to interrupt them ere he had decided whether
to speak out plainly and tell her he was one whom she was condemning by
her words. His face flushed over it that night as he sat before his
fire. She had been telling him what one of the boys had said when she
had asked him why he thought he could not be a Christian: “Well, I can’t
give up smokin’, and we know He never would ‘a’ smoked.” That had seemed
a conclusive argument to the boy.

[Illustration: “HE THREW AWAY HIS CIGAR AND DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE
SHRUBBERY.”]

Was it true that he was sure his Master never would have done it? Then
ought he, a professed follower of Christ? He tried to say that Miss
Manning had peculiar views on this subject and that those boys were
unduly influenced by her; and he recalled how many good followers of
Christ were addicted to the habit. Nevertheless, he felt sure that no
one of them would advise a young man to begin to smoke and he also felt
sure about what Jesus Christ would do.

It had been a long time since he had tried himself and his daily walking
with that sentence, “What would Jesus do?” He did not realize that he
was again falling into the way of it. If he had it might have made him
too satisfied with himself.

There came to be many nights when he sat up late looking into the fire
and comparing his life with the life of the Man whose pictured eyes
looked down so constantly into his own. It was like having a shadow of
Christ’s presence with him constantly. At first it had annoyed him and
hung over him like a pall, that feeling of the unseen Presence which was
symbolized by the skillful hand of the artist. Then it had grown
awesome, and held him from many deeds and words, nay even thoughts,
until now it was growing sweet and dear, a presence of help, the eyes of
a friend looking down upon him in all his daily actions, and
unconsciously he was beginning to wonder whenever a course of conduct
was presented to his mind whether it would seem right to Christ.

At last the happy winter was slipping away rapidly. He had scarcely
stopped to realize how fast, until one night when letters had come in on
the evening mail, one from England brought vividly to his mind some of
his thoughts and resolves and feelings during that return voyage in the
fall. He smiled to himself as he leaned back in the great leather chair
and half-closed his eyes. How he had resolved to devote himself to art
and literature and leave religion and philanthropy to itself! And he had
devoted himself to literature, in a way. Had not he and Miss Manning and
several others of the mission spent the greater part of the winter in an
effort to put good pictures and books into the homes of the people of
the mission, and also to interest these people in the pictures and
books? He had delivered several popular lectures, illustrated by the
best pictures, and had assisted at readings from our best authors. But
would his broad and cultured friends from the foreign shore, who had so
high an opinion of his ability, consider that a strict devotion of
himself to art and literature? And as for the despised mission and its
various functions, it had become the center of his life interest. He
glanced up at the picture on his wall. Had it not been the cause of all
this change in actions, his plans, his very feelings? Nay, had not its
central figure, the Man of Sorrows, become his friend, his guide, his
Saviour in a very real and near sense?

And so he remembered the first night he had looked upon that picture and
its strange effect upon him. He remembered some of his own thoughts
minutely, his vision of that “ladye of high degree” with whose future
his own seemed likely to be joined. How strange it seemed to him now
that he could have ever dreamed of such a thing! Her supercilious smile
seemed even now to make him shrink. The prospect of her trip to America
in the spring or early summer was not the pleasant thing he had then
thought it. Indeed, it annoyed him to remember how much would be
expected of him as guide and host. It would take his time from
things—and people—more correctly speaking, one person who had grown
very dear. He might as well confess it to himself now as at any other
time. Margaret Manning had become to him the one woman in all the earth
whose love he cared to win. And looking on his heart as it now was, and
thinking of himself as when he first returned from abroad, he realized
that he was not nearly so sure of her saying “Yes” to his request that
she would give her life into his keeping, as he had been that the “ladye
of high degree” would assent to that request.

Why was it? Ah! Of this one he was not worthy, so pure and true and
beautiful a woman was she. While the other—was it possible that he had
been willing to marry a woman about whom he felt as he did toward this
other haughty woman of wealth and position? To what depths had he almost
descended! He shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

By and by he arose and put out the light preparatory to going upstairs
for the night, humming a line of an old song:

     “The laird may marry his ladye, his ladye of high degree—
       But I will marry my true love,”

and then his face broke into a sweet smile and he added aloud and
heartily, “if I can”—and hummed the closing words, “For true of heart
am I,” as he went out into the hall, a look of determination growing on
his face and the vision of Margaret Manning enshrined in his heart.


                              CHAPTER VII

The visit of the “ladye of high degree” to America was delayed by wind
and tide and circumstance until the late fall, and in the meantime the
people of America had not stood still for her coming.

Among other things that had been done, there had been put up and fully
equipped a sort of club-house belonging to the Forest Hill Mission. It
does not take long to carry out such schemes when there are two earnest
persons with determination and ability to work like John Stanley and
Margaret Manning.

The money for the scheme had come in rapidly and from unexpected
sources. Margaret declared that every dollar was an answer to prayer.

The house itself was perfectly adapted for the carrying out of their
plans of work. There were reading-rooms and parlors where comfort and a
certain degree of refinement prevailed. There was a gymnasium in which
the privileges and days were divided equally between men and women, and
where thorough instruction was given. There were rooms in which various
classes were carried on evenings for those who had no chance otherwise,
and there were even a few rooms for young men or young women, homeless
and forlorn, where they could get good board for a time, and the whole
was presided over by a motherly, gray-haired woman and her husband,
whose hearts were in the work, and whose good common sense made them
admirably fitted for such a position.

But amid all these plans and preparations for better work John Stanley
had found opportunity to speak to Margaret Manning the words which had
won her consent to make his home bright by her presence and his heart
glad with her love.

Their wedding cards had traveled across the ocean, passing midway the
steamer that carried a letter from the “ladye of high degree,” saying
that she was about to embark on her trip to America and rather demanding
John Stanley’s time and attention during her stay near his home. She had
been used to this in the days when he was near her home, and he had been
only too glad to be summoned then.

His letter waited for him several days while he was away on a short
business trip, and it came about that he opened it but three days before
his wedding day. He smiled as he read her orders. He was to meet her at
the steamer on the fifteenth. Ah! that was the day when he hoped to be a
hundred miles away from New York, speeding blissfully along with
Margaret by his side. He drew a sigh of relief as he reached for pen and
paper and wrote her a brief note explaining that he was sorry not to be
able to show her the courtesies he had promised, but that he would be
away on his wedding trip at the time. He afterward added an invitation
from his mother, and closed the note and forgot all about the matter.

And so it was that the “ladye of high degree,” instead of being met with
all the devotion she had expected,—and which she had intended to exact
to its utmost,—found only a brief note with a paltry invitation to his
wedding reception. She bit her lips in vexation and spent a disagreeable
day in a New York hotel, making all those who had to do with her
miserable. Then she hunted up the names of other acquaintances in
America, noted the date of that reception, and made up her mind to make
her haughty best of it; at least, when she returned home there was the
laird and the earl and the poor duke, if worst came to worst.

The Stanley home was alight from one end to the other, and flowers and
vines did their best to keep up the idea of the departing summer indoors
that night when John Stanley brought home his lovely bride.

It was a strange gathering and a large one. There were present of New
York’s best society the truest and best of men and women, whose costumes
and faces showed that their purses and their culture were equally deep.
And there were many people, poor and plain, in their best clothes it is
true, but so different from the others that one scarcely knew which
costume was more out of place, that of the rich or of the poor.

It had been John Stanley’s idea, and Margaret had joined in it heartily,
this mingling of the different classes to congratulate them in their new
life.

“They will all have to come together in heaven, mother,” John had said
in answer to Mrs. Stanley’s mild protest at inviting Mrs. Cornelius Van
Rensselaer together with Joe Andrews and the mill girls from the
mission. “That is, if they all get there, and in my opinion Joe Andrews
stands as good a chance as Mrs. Van Rensselaer. What is the difference?
It will only be a little in their dress. I think all of our friends are
too sensible to mind that. Let them wear what they please, and for once
let us show them that people can mingle and be friends without caring
for the quality of cotton or silk in which each one is wrapped.”

The mother smiled and lifted her eyebrows a little. She could imagine
the difference between those mill girls and the New York ladies, and she
knew her son could not, but her position was established in the world,
and she was coming to the age when these little material things do not
so much matter. She was willing that her son should do as he wished. She
only said in a lingering protest, “But their grammar, John. You forget
how they murder the king’s English.”

“Never mind, mother,” he said, “I shouldn’t wonder if we should all have
to learn a little heavenly grammar when we get there before we can talk
fittingly with the angels.”

And so their friends were all invited, and none belonging to the Forest
Mission were omitted. Mrs. Ketchum, it is true, was scandalized. She
knew how to dress, and she did not like to be classed among the
“rabble,” as she confided to a few of her friends. “However, one never
knew what Margaret Manning would do, and of course this was just another
of her performances. If John Stanley wasn’t sorry before very long that
he married that woman of the clouds, she would miss her guess.”

She took it upon herself to explain in an undertone to all the guests,
whom she considered worthy of the toilet she had prepared, that these
“other people,” as she denominated the Forest Hill Mission, pointing to
them with her point lace fan with a dainty sweeping gesture, were
_protégés_ of the bride and groom, and were invited that they might have
the pleasure of a glimpse into the well-dressed world, a pleasure
probably that none of them had ever had before.

The “ladye of high degree” was there, oh, yes! Her curiosity led her,
and her own pique. She wanted to see what kind of a wife John Stanley
had married, and she wanted to see if her power over him was really at
an end.

The rich elegance of her wonderful gown, ablaze with diamonds and
adorned with lace of fabulous price, brushed aside the dainty white of
the bride’s and threatened to swallow it up out of sight in its own
glistening folds.

But the bride, in her filmy white robes, seemed in no wise disturbed,
neither did her fair face suffer by contrast with the proud, handsome
one. The “ladye of high degree,” standing in the shadow studying the
sweet bride’s face, was forced to admit that there was a superior
something in this other woman that she did not understand. She turned to
John Stanley, her former admirer, and found his eyes resting in
undisguised admiration on the lovely face of his wife, and her eyes
turned again to the wife and saw her kiss the wrinkled face of an
elderly Scotch woman with beautiful, tender brown eyes and soft waving
hair. The neat, worn brown cashmere dress that the woman wore was
ornamented only by a soft ruffle about the neck. The hair was partly
covered by a plain, brown bonnet with an attempt at gala attire in a bit
of white lace in front, and the wrinkled, worn hands were guiltless of
any gloves, but one of those bare hands was held lovingly between the
bride’s white gloves, and the other rested familiarly about the soft
white of the bride’s waist. There was a beautiful look of love and trust
and appreciation in both faces, and instinctively this stranger was
forced to ask the other onlooker, “Who is she?”

“One of God’s saints on earth,” came John Stanley’s voice in answer. He
had been watching the scene and had forgotten for the moment to whom he
was talking. Not that he would have disliked to speak so to the “ladye
of high degree” now, for he was much changed, but he would not have
thought she would understand.

“She is just a dear woman in the church whom my wife loves very much.
She is a natural poet soul, and you may be sure she has been saying
something to her which would be worth writing in a book, and which she
will always remember.”

And then the “ladye of high degree” turned and looked at her old
acquaintance in undisguised astonishment. John Stanley must have noticed
this and been embarrassed a moment, but Mrs. Ketchum came by just then
to be introduced, and she proved to be the kindred spirit for whom this
stranger had been searching. From her was gained much information, some
of which astonished her beyond belief. She made one or two more attempts
to rally her power over John Stanley later in the evening, but she too
had fallen under the spell of the lovely woman whose eyes her husband’s
followed wherever she went, and she finally gave it up.

The final surprise came to the stranger guest late in the evening, as
she was making her way through John Stanley’s study to the cloak room.
She had been told by the voluble Mrs. Ketchum that this room was Mr.
Stanley’s “den.” She had also noticed during the evening at different
times that people stopped opposite the picture that hung on the wall
over the mantel. She had not before been in a position to see what this
picture was for the crowd, but she had supposed it some master-piece
that Mr. Stanley had brought home from his travels. Her curiosity, or
her interest, or both, led her to pause now alone, and to look up.

As others were held under its spell, so was this woman for a moment. The
beauty and expression of the work of art caught her fancy, and the face
of the Master held her gaze, while her soul recognized and understood
the subject. In great astonishment she glanced around the room once more
and back. Could it be that John Stanley kept a picture like this in his
den? It was not like the John Stanley she had known.

And then a soft, little, white-gloved hand rested on her shoulder, and a
sweet, earnest voice said: “Isn’t it wonderful? I’m so glad to be where
I can look at it every day as much as I wish.”

[Illustration: “THE ‘LADYE OF HIGH DEGREE’ . . . SAW THEM STANDING ALSO.”]

Turning she saw the bride standing by her side. She scarcely knew how to
answer, and before she could do so she noticed that another had entered
the room, and she knew instinctively that Mr. Stanley had come.

“That is one of my treasures. Are you admiring it?” he said in the
strong voice that seemed so unlike his old one, and the guest murmured
something about the picture, and looking about uneasily excused herself
and slipped away.

They stood a moment before the picture together, the husband and wife.
They were tired with the evening’s talk, and a sight of this refreshed
them both and gave the promise of future joy.

The “ladye of high degree,” passing through that hall, having purposely
come by another route from the cloak room rather than through the study,
saw them standing also, and understood—that she did not understand, and
went out into the night with a lonely longing for something, she knew
not what.

As the two stood together the husband said: “Do you know, dear, that
picture has made the turning point in my life. Ever since it came in
here I have felt that his presence was with me wherever I went. And I
have you to thank for it all. And through it I have gained you, this
richest, sweetest blessing of my life. Do you know, I found a verse in
my Bible to-day that it seems to me fits me and that picture. It is
this: ‘The angel of his presence saved them. In his love and in his pity
he redeemed them.’”




                          GABRIEL THE ACADIAN

                                   BY

                        EDITH M. NICHOLL BOWYER




                          GABRIEL THE ACADIAN

                        =LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS=

              “‘_It is a heretic name!’ exclaimed Le
                Loutre_”                                 3

              “_Suddenly the girl raised her head_”     27

              “_M. l’Abbé commands_”                    42

              “_But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears
                for the priest_”                        69

              “‘_Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer_’”           82

              “_Far away at the mouth of the inlet
                . . . lay three small ships_”           91

              “‘_And thou wilt make me a traitor too!’
                he cried_”                             120

              “_They sat down side by side before the
                empty hearth_”                         131

[Illustration: “‘It is a heretic name!’ exclaimed Le Loutre.”]




              _There is a history in all men’s lives,_
              _Figuring the nature of the times deceased;_
              _The which observed, a man may prophesy,_
              _With a near aim, of the main chance of things_
              _As yet not come to life; which in their seeds_
              _And weak beginnings lie intreasured._
                           —_Shakespeare, Henry IV._




                          GABRIEL THE ACADIAN


                               CHAPTER I

“It is the name my mother called me by,” quoth Gabriel sturdily.

For a moment there was silence, save for a murmur of horror that ran
through the assembled Acadians at the daring of a boy who thus defied
the fierce priest; yet his bearing was perfectly respectful.

“It is a heretic name!” exclaimed Le Loutre.

“Pardon, _M. l’Abbé_, but it is said not. My father also bare it, and
his father before him. Never willingly will I be called by any other.
Did not my mother swear on the crucifix to my dying sire that his child
should bear his name? And to break a holy vow—is not that of all things
the most sinful, O _mon père_?”

“Thy father died unshriven.”

“My father was of the Protestant faith,” rejoined the boy quickly. “He
died faithful to his own, though far from the land of his birth. He
would have carried my mother to join the colonists in Virginia, where
abide many of his kindred, but the prospect of leaving our Acadian land
did not please her, and he loved her more than kin or country. My father
was a good soldier and brave, monsieur; he was but true to the flag he
served, and to which all we of Acadia have sworn allegiance, and daily
break our vows!”

He raised his eyes of English blue, and looked straight into those of
the Abbé Le Loutre, black and angry as a thundercloud.

A fine figure of a seventeen-year-old lad he was. At his age many an
Acadian youth was beginning to dream of wife and home all his own. Tall
and strongly built, his light curls tossed back from a brow whose
tell-tale fairness showed through the ruddy bronze left by the suns and
storms of Acadia.

This time the exclamations of horror rose louder than before, and above
them was heard the piteous remonstrance of the village _curé_, “Ah, _mon
fils_, submit thyself to the good _abbé_.”

Gabriel’s fearless glance swept the rows of dull Acadian faces. It
seemed to him as if in actual bodily fear the villagers crouched before
the enraged priest, who drove, rather than led, his timid, ignorant
flock, and the gentle _curé_, his subordinate. And the whip with which
he goaded them was none other than the ferocious band of Micmac Indians,
to whom he had been sent by the French government, nominally as
missionary, but in reality that he might keep the Acadians, by fair
means or foul, in a continual state of rebellion to their easy-going
English rulers.

The murmurs died away into awed silence. Then, with a scornful lift of
the hand, Le Loutre turned from the boy and faced the trembling
villagers. His address at first was in the usual strain, only, if
possible, more intolerant and fanatic than at his last visit, and
Gabriel soon pushed impatiently out of the crowd, and flung himself down
upon the river’s bank. Presently, however, he found himself listening
intently. Here were threats more terrible, even, than of old. Gabriel
was brave; his father’s blood did not run in his veins for naught; but
for once he wondered not that his countrymen cowered beneath the lash of
that fierce tongue.

“The people of Acadia are the people of my mother,” he often said, “and
I love them. But they are cowards.”

And when he looked forth from the harbor mouth of Chebucto and swept
with his eyes the wide Atlantic, there burned in his young bosom a fire
that would have amazed his placid kinsmen had they known of it, content,
as they were, with the daily round of humble submission to the priests,
petty legal quarrels or equally petty gossip with the neighbors, and
daily tilling of the soil—a fire that was kindled a hundred years
before in one who sailed the seas with Raleigh, and which burned anew in
this young scion of an ancient race.

“I want to go, to see, to do!” he would cry, flinging wide his arms.

But now, as he gave unwilling ear to Le Loutre, his boyish heart sank.
Could the _abbé_ in truth fulfill these threats of driving the people to
French soil, whether they would or no? Could he force them, in the name
of God and the king, to forsake their pleasant homes in which the
English, whatever might be their crimes against the French, at least
allowed the Acadians to live in peace, unpunished too during all these
years for their want of loyalty to sworn allegiance? Gabriel’s eyes
traveled beyond that dominant figure, and dwelt upon the savage band of
“converts” gathered behind the priest. Yes, he could, and would!

Wrapt in his own thoughts, Gabriel noticed neither the dispersion of the
people nor the ominous fact that his grandfather, Pierre Grétin, was
accompanied on his homeward way by Le Loutre himself. His eyes were upon
the flowing river, and the light step of his Cousin Margot failed to
arouse him. Her sweet face was close to his, and her small hand on his
shoulder ere he stirred.

“Gabriel, I have somewhat to say to thee.”

“What is it, _ma mie_?”

“Wilt thou not depart to-night to thy friends whom thou dost sometimes
visit without the walls of the new Halifax, by the harbor called of us
Chebucto? There lives that English priest who taught thee discontent
with our blessed religion and with our beloved _curé_.”

“Not with our _curé_, Margot. He is good; he makes all religion
beautiful and true. But wouldst thou blame me because my heart turns to
the faith of my father? That in which my mother might have found courage
to rear me had she lived?”

“No, _mon cousin_, no, not blame. But grievous danger threatens all who
defy the _abbé_, and thee more than others, because of thy hated English
blood. But listen, Gabriel; dost thou indeed love Margot as though she
were thine own sister?”

The boy was silent a moment, then he answered simply:

“That I cannot tell thee, Margot, seeing that I never had a sister. But
I love thee as I love none other besides.”

“That is well,” she said with equal simplicity, “because to save thy
life for my sake thou must act contrary to thy nature.”

He sprang to his feet, his blue eyes flashing so that for a moment
Margot quailed before him.

“You would not have me play the coward and liar?” he cried. “That I
cannot do, even for thee. I am an Acadian—yes. Yet neither of these
things will I be!”

“I too am an Acadian,” replied the young girl with quiet dignity, “yet
am I not false. Timid I may be, for such is the wont of my sex.”

“Pardon, _ma cousine_, pardon,” exclaimed Gabriel remorsefully. “Thou
knowest how it is with me; my heart beats, and the words rush, and it is
all over.”

“Wilt thou never learn prudence?” she retorted, smiling. “We Acadians
have learned it in nigh forty years of lying helpless like a lamb
betwixt two snapping wolves.”

“Prudence, dost thou call it, Margot? My father called it by a harsher
name; and even my mother said that was a poor thing we did, to live, a
free people, under one flag; untaxed, ministered to by our own priests,
the very necessaries of life supplied to us, and yet intriguing, forever
intriguing, with those of the other flag.”

“The flag under which we live is an alien flag,” said gentle Margot.

“That may be; but have we ever been called upon to fight for it? And now
that we are summoned to swear the full oath of allegiance, we have
richly deserved this mild rebuke. The French are cruel; we go with them
only through fear of the Indians.”

“The _gran’-père_, he goes with none,” interposed the girl with a flash
of spirit. “He tills the soil in peace, meddling not with French or
English.”

“Ah, but even he will have to choose ere many days are past; the _abbé_
does not bring here his flock for naught. And,” cried the lad, clenching
his fists, “who would be a neutral? Not I!” Then more quietly: “Hast
thou not heard them tell, Margot, how when France yielded Acadia to
England we were free, all of us, to move within the year to French soil
if we would? But we would neither go nor remain and take the oath of
fealty; nevertheless we were permitted to stay unsworn for seventeen
years, intriguing then even as we do now. At last the oath was won from
us, and more than twenty years since then have come and gone, and once
again, because of our untruth and the cruelties practised upon English
settlers, the word has gone forth that we must swear anew. What kind of
a people, then are we, Margot, to be thus double-faced? Thirteen
thousand souls, and withal afraid of priests and Indians! Not daring,
not one of us, to play the man and come out boldly for the one flag or
the other. Oh, we are cowards—cowards all!”

He flung himself upon the ground and covered his face with his hands.

To simple, yet wise little Margot these bursts of passion on the part of
her cousin were almost incomprehensible. Her nature was a still, clear
pool, whilst his was as the young torrent leaping down the rocks,
unconscious of its own power, but eager to join the strong and swelling
stream beneath, upon whose bosom the great ships float down to the deep
sea. But although she did not understand, love gave her sympathy. She
kneeled beside him, and once more laid her hand upon his shoulder; but
the words she would have uttered died in her throat, and instead she
exclaimed in accents of terror:

“O Gabriel, Gabriel, arise. It is the _gran’-père_ who calls, and with
him is still the _abbé_.”

In an instant the lad was on his feet.

“Gabriel, _mon fils_!”

The thin, cracked voice floated across the meadows from the door of the
small hut, which was considered by even prosperous Acadians like Grétin
all-sufficient for the family needs. Without a moment’s hesitation
Gabriel took his cousin’s hand, and led her, half crying now, toward
their home, where the tall form of the priest was plainly visible,
towering over that of the grandfather.

                 *        *        *        *        *

These were stirring times for Acadie. Lord Cornwallis was governor of
the province—the Cornwallis described by Walpole as “a brave, sensible
young man, of great temper and good nature.” He needed to be all this
and more, for the Acadians were a difficult people to deal with.
Vacillating, ignorant, and priest-ridden, it was the easiest thing in
the world for the French to hold them in actual fact, while by treaty
ceding them to England, an alien power and race. Fear, however, played a
large part in French influence; and this was invariably the case
throughout the long dissensions betwixt France and England. Indian
savagery was winked at, even encouraged, by French authorities in their
dealings both with English and Acadians; and the fair escutcheon of
France was defaced by many a stain of blood cruelly, wantonly,
treacherously shed. That the Acadians should be in sympathy with France
rather than with England was natural; their wrong-doing consisted not in
that, but in their readiness to accept English protection while plotting
steadily with the French against the flag to which they had sworn fealty
rather than move to French soil. They were now in a somewhat sorry
plight.

The long-patient English government, through Cornwallis, was requiring
of them a fresh oath, and better faith in keeping it, if they continued
to reside in the province, whilst the governor of those French
possessions, now called Cape Breton and Prince Edward’s Island, was
using every means in his power, hideous threats included, to induce them
to come definitely under the French flag. What those means might
eventually be even such young creatures as Margot and Gabriel knew only
too well.

The cousins found their grandfather looking troubled and distressed, and
the priest still wearing the menacing air which had all that day awed
his village audience.

“It is full time you of Port Royal bethought you of your duty to your
religion and your king instead of forever quarreling among yourselves,
and enriching pettifogging men of law. But for thee, Grétin, though
special indulgence has ever been shown thee, it will be well that thou
shouldst take thought for thy family before it is too late. Thou knowest
my flock of old,” alluding to his savage converts, “and the kind of
lambs they are. Homes await the loyal subjects of God and the king on
the Isle of St. Jean and Isle Royale, and if they see not what is best
for their own souls’ good I have the means to make them see it!”

Grétin was both morally and intellectually the superior of those among
whom he lived, and he was also braver than his neighbors, but of what
avail is superiority when a man stands alone? It was for this reason,
combined with the habit of subjection to priestly authority, that he
replied hastily:

“Yes, _M. l’Abbé_, it is even as you say.

“This boy must be disciplined,” continued the priest sternly.

“Yes, _M. l’Abbé_, so it must be.”

It was at this moment that “the boy” presented himself, his head erect,
his face pale, and holding the hand of his cousin.

“Drop the maiden’s hand and follow me!” was the _abbé’s_ harsh
salutation. “I have that to say which is not for feminine ears.”

Gabriel obeyed, but there was something in his air which, though
promising submission, meant submission within definite limits.

Le Loutre entered the hut and closed the door on the peaceful, pastoral
scene without, lit up by the rays of the declining sun. Then seating
himself on a bench, rude and plain as were the furnishings of all the
homes of the frugal and industrious Acadians, however rich in land and
stock, he addressed Gabriel standing respectfully before him.

“What is thine age?”

“I shall be eighteen at the Christmastide.”

“Humph! a well-grown youth! Dost thou call thyself boy or man?”

An irrepressible smile curled Gabriel’s fresh lips, but he answered
demurely:

“Neither, _mon père_.”

“Dare not to trifle with me, son of a heretic!” broke out the priest,
his imperious temper rising. Accustomed to see all men cringe before
him, this lad’s fearless demeanor was particularly galling to Le Loutre.
He controlled himself again, however, and proceeded with that
persuasiveness of which when it suited him he was master:

“It is as man, not boy, I call upon thee this day to serve God and the
king, and to prove thyself worthy of the confidence I would repose in
thee. I give thee thy just due, thou hast a good courage, and it is men
of such mettle that Louis requires, _men_, hearest thou?”

Gabriel’s frank, yet searching, gaze was riveted on the priest’s face;
and so keen were those blue eyes that Le Loutre shifted his, momentarily
disconcerted. For perhaps the first time in his remarkable career he was
conscious of difficulty in explaining the righteousness, according to
his creed, of “doing evil that good may come.” Not that he himself
doubted; he was too honest a zealot for that; but in this case
explanation was somehow not easy.

“Thou knowest,” he said at length, “of this new oath that the heretics
would extort from God’s people. To keep them in the fold and preserve
their souls alive at any cost is my priestly duty; but in order to
accomplish this I must have loyal aid. My Micmacs waver, they have even
made a treaty with the English. This cannot be permitted to endure. It
is therefore the king’s wish that they be secretly encouraged to break
it, and to this end loyal Acadians in disguise must accompany them when
they go to Halifax. Later these same faithful subjects will continue
their work for the holy cause in the old way.”

Le Loutre paused and regarded Gabriel fixedly. The boy’s face was alight
with sudden comprehension. It was not the priest’s custom to speak
openly of his plans, but he was fully aware that he was now dealing with
no ordinary dull-witted Acadian peasant. What an invaluable ally this
half-heretic lad would be could he only mold him to his will.

Gabriel had not lived his brief span of life in Port Royal for nothing.
He already knew that Le Loutre was quite capable of using force to drive
the Acadians from their thriving farms to make new homes for themselves
on French soil, rather than that they should pledge their word to the
English again, even though that pledge might be broken as before. And
there was evidently some scheme more serious in process of hatching than
the well-worn one of painting and disguising Acadians and sending them
out with the Micmacs to plunder and slay English settlers. The ancient
farce of “Indian warfare” was to wear a new face. The existence of peace
between the two countries had never been any hindrance to French
scheming. Gabriel had only too vivid recollections of the fate of
certain Acadians, who had been cajoled or frightened into joining those
Indian war-parties, and who, when taken prisoner by the English, had
been disowned by the French and declared to have “acted of their own
accord.”

The lad’s heart was heavy within him. If he defied the priest and
refused to stoop to that which in his eyes was baseness and treachery,
his life would be made a torment, nay, perhaps forfeited, none could
foretell where Le Loutre would stop. And worse, far worse than this, the
_gran’-père_, hitherto well regarded by the bigoted priest and granted
many indulgences, would be ruthlessly hunted from the dear home to the
bleak, uncleared shores of Isle Royale, or, as the English named it,
Cape Breton. The _gran’-père_—he was old—he would certainly die
without the strong grandson to help him. And Margot? Ah, it was too
bitter! In spite of himself Gabriel covered his eyes with his hand as if
to shut out the frightful vision.

The face of Le Loutre glowed with triumph. He had not expected so easy a
victory. To his present scheme this youth, with his knowledge of the
English tongue and the customs of the fort, was well-nigh indispensable;
moreover, his intelligence and his sense of honor were alike keen, and
once pledged to him, the priest knew that he would never turn traitor.
Under pretense of trading in furs a French vessel had brought to Acadie
guns and ammunition enough to arm both Acadians and Indians, and the
latter were already being secretly bribed by the Intendant at Louisburg
through Le Loutre; for a signal act of treachery was now required of
them.

But the priest had triumphed too soon. When at length Gabriel raised his
head, though his young face looked almost ghostly in the dying light,
his eyes were shining with high resolve. Not that the path of duty was
as yet perfectly clear before him, or that he knew whither it might
lead, but he was resolute to take no other. Nevertheless he understood
that mere defiance would not help either himself or those far dearer
than self. Therefore he controlled himself and said quietly:

“_M. l’Abbé_ has without doubt heard of that _prêtre_ from the New
England who instructs a flock outside the walls of Halifax?”

Le Loutre scowled darkly.

“Art thou a heretic already? I feared as much.”

“No, _M. l’Abbé_,” replied the boy in the same restrained tones; “yet I
confess that the faith of my fathers holds much of interest for me. And
he is good, _monsieur_, oh, good! like our own beloved _curé_.”

Here he hesitated; then took courage, and went on rapidly:

“He bade me always to remember, even if I should not in the end turn to
my father’s faith, that one of its noblest commands is: Never do evil
that good may come. Also that my father obeyed that command. O _mon
père_, choose some one else for thy purpose; one who is not divided in
heart as I, but who hates the English as my blood will not let me do,
and to whom the Holy Catholic Church is the only church!”

For a moment it seemed as though the priest would strike the pleading
face upturned to his, so fierce a flame of wrath swept over him, but
instead he said with a sneer:

“And thou wouldst thrust the words of a heretic down the throat of a
priest of God and the king? There is but one explanation, boy, thou art
a coward!”

The hot blood surged into Gabriel’s cheeks. All his prudence was tossed
aside beneath the lash of that tongue. Flinging back his head he
confronted Le Loutre with an air which compelled, as it never had failed
to do, the reluctant admiration of the man to whom courage seemed the
best of God’s gifts to mortals.

“_M. l’Abbé_,” said the boy, in the low tones of an unbending resolve,
“I am no coward; but I should be both coward and liar were I to do your
bidding.”

For a breathing space the two pairs of eyes held one another like
wrestlers. Then:

“As thou wilt,” rejoined the priest coldly. “But forget not that no
traitors to God and the king can dwell at ease in Acadie. Mine are no
empty threats.”

He flung wide the door and called to the waiting Micmacs. As they
stepped out of the surrounding gloom, the pine torches carried by them
illuminated their ferocious countenances. Margot sprang forward and cast
herself upon her knees before the priest.

“O _mon père, mon père_, do with me what you will, inflict on me any
penance that seems unto you good; but spare, oh, spare my cousin, if
only for the sake of the _gran’-père_!”

The girl’s agonized pleading rang out into the night. Then, in a voice
rendered tremulous by years and infirmity, but still not devoid of
dignity, Grétin himself spoke.

“_M. l’Abbé_,” he said, “the boy is of heretic blood—yes. But also is
he of my blood—mine, who am a faithful servant of the true church. If
he has been led astray, I myself will see to it that he returns to the
fold. For he is a good lad, and the prop and staff of my old age.”

Le Loutre turned on the _gran’-père_ his piercing eyes.

“Thou hast reason, Grétin. Thou hast indeed been a faithful servant of
the church, but art thou that now? Do not thy religion and thy king
demand of thee that thou shouldst leave, with all that is thine, the air
breathed by pestilential heretics, and dost thou not still linger,
battening in their green pastures, yea, feeding from their hand? Art
thou, therefore, fit to be the guide of erring youth? It may be too,
that thou wilt have to suffer for his sin if he repent not.”

The old man bowed his head, and a low moan escaped him.

“Hurt not the lad,” he murmured. “He is as the very apple of my eye.”

“My Micmacs will look to his repentance,” retorted the priest grimly.
“In the saving of the soul the body may have to endure somewhat, but
holy church is merciful to the penitent.”

As he spoke Gabriel sprang from the detaining hands, of the Indians, and
kneeling at the feet of the old man, lifted the shriveled fingers and
laid them upon his own fair head.

“Bless me, even me, O _mon père_,” he cried.

But the _gran’-père_ fell upon his neck and wept.

“Oh, Gabriel, my son, my son!”

Before he could so much as speak to Margot, the Indians, at a sign from
Le Loutre, relentless always in the performance of what he believed to
be his duty and now enraged by defeat, seized the youth and disappeared
with him into the forest. Lingering only to make the sign of the cross
over the helpless and bereaved pair, Le Loutre himself followed.


                               CHAPTER II

Gabriel, hurried along through “brake, bush, and brier,” each arm
grasped by a brawny Micmac, had no time for thought. A grown man of
settled convictions might have found his situation a very labyrinth of
difficulty. How much more, then, a growing lad, unavoidably halting
betwixt two nationalities and two forms of religion?

After what seemed endless hours, but which in reality was but a short
time, the party arrived at the settlement of wigwams on the bank of the
Shubenacadie. The priest was no longer to be seen. “Am I then to be left
to the mercy of these savages?” thought Gabriel. Yet close on the heels
of the thought flashed the consciousness that the Indians’ violence had
considerably slackened since the disappearance of Le Loutre. The bonds
with which they had tied their prisoner were so loose that he easily
slipped out of them, and approaching the squaws who were gathering wood
for the fires, he addressed them in their own language and proceeded to
help them. The braves merely turned their heads and glanced at him
indifferently. “Not enough gold!” he heard one mutter to another. He had
already heard that the Micmacs had grown shrewd enough to put their own
price on the harassing of recalcitrant or timid Acadians, and the taking
of English scalps; and like all ignorant or savage races had quickly
learned to overestimate their services and become insatiate in their
demands. Gabriel’s chances, therefore, depended to some extent on the
condition of the priest’s treasury; also on the fact that he was
personally acquainted with certain members of the band, to whom by
reason of his skill in woodcraft and familiarity with the habits of the
forest game he had not only occasionally been of service, but whose
respect he had won.

“This is the white boy who knows even as does the red man the lair of
the wild deer and where in the noonday heat they turn their steps to
drink,” observed one to the other, as Gabriel, restraining every symptom
of fear, quietly joined the group around the now blazing fire and helped
himself out of the common pot.

“Yes,” he put in coolly, “and I can tell you more than that if you
will.”

There are natures, those of women as well as of men, whose vitality
quickens in the face of actual danger. They may be even cowardly in the
mere anticipation, but the trumpet-call of duty, honor, or sacrifice, or
the less high-sounding clarion of self-preservation, sets them on their
feet, face forward to the coming foe. In Gabriel all these forces were
at work, though Margot’s sweet, pale face and the _gran’-père’s_ bowed
gray head, were the strongest influences. And behind all these was that
irrepressible spirit of adventure, never wholly absent from the normally
healthy young mind.

Drawing on his store of woodland stories, and occasionally pausing to
give ear to those furnished by the now interested Micmacs, an hour
passed in total oblivion by the captors of the commands laid on them
concerning their prisoner; and when at last a tall dark form suddenly
appeared within the circle of light, and a well-known terrible voice
broke forth in objurgation; it was plain that the owner of both was
scarcely more welcome to his “lambs” than to the prisoner.

“What is that I behold?” exclaimed Le Loutre. “Where is your Christian
service, vowed to God and the king? Instead, I find feasting and foolish
gabbling, with a traitorous captive in the midst!”

The faces of the Indians clouded in sullen silence. The lash of the
priest’s tongue went unsparingly on. At length the leader growled out,
“The pale faces from over the sea bring no more gifts. The red men grow
weary of taking the scalps of friendly white men who are at war with
your people but who do the Indian no wrong. They at the new fort have
treated us well. And as for this boy, you give us not enough to take the
scalp of so mighty a hunter and true a tracker.”

Le Loutre’s face paled with baffled rage. True it was that owing to some
at present unexplained delay the customary large remittances from France
for the bribing of Indians who were friendly to the English were not
forthcoming, and with a heart-leap of joy Gabriel saw the truth written
in his eyes.

“Fools! Did I bid you take his scalp? Did I not bid you rather to
chasten him for his faithlessness and force him back to his duty? This
you know well enough how to do without my guiding presence. Yet I come
to find——”

With a gesture of unutterable scorn he waved his black-robed arm.

But his personal influence was on the wane, and he knew it. It was
money, gifts, that were needed, and for these he must wait. Yet were
there still a few whose greed was of the kind that will take anything
rather than nothing, and on these he depended, and not in vain.

Stealthily, like dark spirits, two or three Indians glided from behind
their companions, and took up their station beside the priest.
Strengthened by these mute allies he once more faced the group at the
fire, and proceeded to pour forth in fervid eloquence alternate
persuasion, threat, and glowing promise of future reward. Gabriel soon
discovered that he was not the central figure in this tirade—that
larger projects than the fate of one boy were being held before the now
attentive Indians, who uttered guttural notes of assent or dissent.

“A hundred _livres_ for each scalp—a hundred _livres_, mark you! This
boy knows, as you cannot do, the plan of the fort at Halifax, and the
number of its defenders. If he be so mighty a tracker, let him track
these English dogs to their lair and fire them out of it, or in it, it
matters not which, so that to God and the king are restored what is
rightly theirs. But remember, a hundred _livres_ is yours for every
English scalp! My people may not do this thing, for they have signed a
peace with their enemies, but for your people it is otherwise.”

“Have we too, not set our totems to a solemn treaty?” growled one
dissenting voice.

Once more from the priest that gesture of contempt.

“And what is that for such as you?” he said. “What is a broken treaty to
the Indian?”

Gabriel, unable longer to contain himself, sprang to his feet.

“_Mon père!_” he cried, his heart in a flame, a blaze of sudden
illumination in his soul. “Nay, never more _mon père! M. l’Abbé_, is
this, then, the Christianity, the fealty to God and the king, to which
you would have me faithful? Then, God willing, faithless will I be.”

For a long minute there was dead silence, broken only by the quick
breathing of the excited boy. The Indians, though not fully
understanding the words, realized their daring, and gazed upon him with
all the admiration of which their anger was capable.

“Do your work,” said Le Loutre at last coldly, signing to the Micmacs at
his side.

In a moment Gabriel was thrown to the ground, his arms bound to his
side, his feet tied. A hole was dug in the ground, a post placed in it,
and around the post fresh logs were heaped.

Such scenes, alas! were not uncommon under the despotic rule of Abbé Le
Loutre, and though no instance is recorded of actual sacrifice of life,
owing perhaps almost as much to Acadian timidity as to priestly
forbearance, much terror and temporary suffering were caused by his
blind fanaticism. But in this boy of mixed race there was stouter stuff
to deal with, and his English blood was to the priest as a thing
accursed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Days passed, and Pierre Grétin and his granddaughter could obtain no
news of Gabriel. Tossed and torn by conflicting emotions, communal as
well as personal, the old man’s strength seemed to be ebbing from him.
Yet never did he need it more. The village of Port Royal (now
Annapolis), nay, all Acadie, was in the confusion of helpless distress.
What should they do, these poor ignorant habitans? To whom should they
listen? In their hearts they knew that every word of Cornwallis’
proclamation was true, that under English rule they had enjoyed freedom,
both secular and religious. On the other hand, Le Loutre swept down upon
them continually with the firebrand of his eloquence. “Come to French
soil,” he cried, “seek new homes under the old flag! For three years _le
bon roi_ will support you. You are French at heart—what have you to do
with these English? Refuse, and the consolations of religion will be
denied you and your property shall be given over to the savages.”

True, they were French at heart, the most of them, but not all; and
their tranquil, sluggish lives had drifted so peacefully on the broad
river of the English governor’s indulgence. It was almost worth while to
renew the oath of allegiance to these foreigners and sleep quietly once
more under their own rooftrees. But would they sleep quietly? Ah, there
was the rub! Le Loutre had ever been a man of his word.

Therefore it came to pass that French ships passing to Isle St. Jean,
now called Prince Edward Island, and Isle Royale, now Cape Breton, had
for two years many hundred Acadians for passengers, some willing, more
reluctant, destined to semi-starvation and unutterable misery in the new
and desolate country in which their small stock of courage was to be so
grievously tried, and in which few of them plucked up spirit sufficient
to clear new land for their subsistence, but existed, or ceased to
exist, on such meagre supplies as the French government furnished them.

“_Gran’-père_,” said Margot one evening, as bereft of most of their near
neighbors they clung almost alone to their humble home, “_mon
gran’-père_, what think you, has become of our Gabriel?” Her eyes were
heavy with weeping, her round cheeks pale.

Grétin, in yet worse case, had scarce strength to take his turn with her
behind their yoke of oxen at the plow. He sat on a bench at the door of
the hut, both hands leaning heavily on his staff. For a while he
answered nothing, but his sunken gaze wandered along the banks of the
river, from one desolated home to another. In scarcely more than two or
three still burned the sweet fires of home, and those that were forsaken
had been plundered by the Indians, fresh traces of whose presence were
daily visible. The good village _curé_, beloved of all, and the
influence of whose noble life and teachings represented all that was
best in the Catholic church, was gone too. Torn by contending duties he
had decided that the forlorn exiles needed his ministrations more than
those still remaining in their homes, and had followed them to French
soil.

“_Le bon Dieu_ knows, my child!” Grétin answered at last, in the dull
tones of hopeless old age.

“Surely _M. l’Abbé_ would not permit that—that——” her voice broke.

“That his fair young life should be destroyed by those savages? No, my
child, no—that can I not believe. Moreover, Jean Jacques, Paul
Pierre—they were his friends among the Micmacs. And _M. l’Abbé_—no, he
would bend but not break the boy.”

There was a long silence. The evening dews, tears of the soil for the
banishment of her children, sparkled on the wide meadows beneath the now
rising moon.

“Margot, we can no longer resist the priest’s will,” he said again, “and
alone we are not able to till the land, so that it may bring forth crops
for our sustenance.”

But a burst of tears from the girl interrupted him. Flinging herself at
his feet, she threw her arms around him and hid her face in his breast.

“_Gran’-père, mon gran’-père!_” she cried, “I will work! I can plow—I
can dig! I am young it is true, and small, but we women of Acadie are
strong. You shall care for the house—it is I who will till the land.
Let us not leave Acadie. Gabriel may return—sick, wounded, who knows?
and we gone, the house desolate! If _M. l’Abbé_ sets his Micmacs on us
to drive us forth, I will plead with them. They have hearkened to me
before now, they will again. If not, then we must go forth indeed, but
not yet, not yet!”

[Illustration: “Suddenly the girl raised her head.”]

Weeping they clung together. Suddenly the girl raised her head. A moment
more she was on her feet, gazing intently into the black depths of the
forest.

“_Gran’-père_,” she whispered, “do you hear?”

“Only the night-hawk, my daughter.”

“Ah, but the night-hawk! Many a time have I heard my cousin call thus in
the woods in our happy play times. There, again!”

Like an arrow from a bow she was gone, speeding through the long grass,
but keeping well in the shadows.

The old man rose with difficulty. He was weary and cramped with the long
day’s work, of which since his grandson began to grow toward manhood his
share had until these evil days been slight. As the minutes crawled by
and Margot did not return, anxiety swelled to terror. The Indians—they
did not all know her. With shaking hand he took his ancient-fowling
piece from the peg where it hung.

His vision was dim, and as he started blindly on his way, he found
himself arrested, gently pushed back into the hut, the door barred, the
small windows shuttered. All was done quickly and quietly, as by an
accustomed hand. Pine cones were thrown upon the half-dead fire, there
was a blaze of light, and Pierre Grétin fell into the arms of his
grandson.

But joy sobered as Grétin and Margot surveyed their recovered treasure
by the additional illumination of home-made tallow dips. Gabriel,
indeed, was but the ghost of his former buoyant, radiant self. Only the
blue, brave light in his eyes betrayed the old Gabriel. His cheeks were
hollow, his frame gaunt, his home-spun clothing torn to rags.

“That I can soon remedy,” said the little housewife to herself, as she
thought of the new suit in the oaken chest, set aside for his first
communion.

Strange scars were on his legs and hands, and these Margot soon fell to
examining, a growing dread in her face, though he strove to draw his
fingers from her clasp.

“Heed them not, _ma cousine_,” he said tenderly. “I have weightier
matters to speak of with thee and with the _gran’-père_.”

“Speak on, my son.”

“Nay,” said the girl quickly, “let him rest and eat first.”

Glancing into the pot, which hung, French fashion, over the fire, she
added to it shredded meat and vegetables until the whole was a savory
mess. While she prepared it, the boy sat with his head in his hands, a
man before his time.

The meal ended and the kitchen restored to its wonted order, Margot, in
whom, as in all Acadians, the frugal spirit of the French peasant
prevailed, extinguished the tallow dips; then, taking her seat on a
cricket at her grandfather’s knee, she eagerly awaited Gabriel’s story.

This story of Gabriel’s was no easy one to tell; this he felt himself.
In the brief time that he had been absent from his home, brief in actual
duration, but to himself and to his loved ones so long, life had
acquired for him a wholly different meaning. Hitherto his nature had
been as plastic material prepared for some mold, the selection of which
had not as yet been made known. He knew now for what he was destined,
and was conscious that the boy was rapidly hardening into the man he was
intended to be. The fanaticism permitted in one of its most potent
instruments had upset his faith in the form of religion in which he had
been reared, and he was too young for the tolerance that is often the
fruit of a larger experience. Moreover, strange as it may seem, there
was in this generous, tender-hearted youth elements not unlike those in
the relentless and vindictive priest. The fanatic and the enthusiast not
seldom spring from the same root. But how to explain to these two, who,
dear to him as they were, could not be expected to share his
convictions? At last he roused himself.

“First, dear _gran’-père_,” he said, “I must learn how it fares with you
and with _ma cousine_. God grant that you be left here in peace!”

There was a pause. They too had their difficulties. How could they tell
him that Le Loutre might even yet have spared them their home had it not
been for what he called “the contumacy of that young heretic”? Margot’s
woman’s wit, however, came to the rescue and she told simply and
truthfully the tale of the gradual banishment of their people. “We still
are spared,” she concluded, “but it cannot be for long.”

“Then my sins were not visited on your head,” said Gabriel eagerly.

“As others fare, so must we in the end,” was the somewhat evasive reply.
“But come, my cousin, to thy tale.”

So Gabriel began, but when he came to the scene of the torture,
hesitated. Margot’s indignant sympathy, however, divined what he would
not tell.

“Was it very bad, dear cousin?” she cried, the tears in her dark eyes,
as she pressed his hand.

“No, not so very bad,” he replied with forced lightness. “The friendly
Micmacs rebelled, and I do not believe _M. l’Abbé_ ever pushes things to
extremes at first. He strove only to scare me into submission to his
will, and I have got a bit of tough English oak somewhere in me that
doesn’t bend as do tender Acadian saplings.” He smiled down into his
cousin’s wet eyes. “Don’t weep, little cousin. See, I am well; none has
hurt me.”

“Oh, but thou art thin, thou art pale, thou art changed,” she cried,
breaking down completely. “Oh, _mon gran’-père_, is it that we must love
and obey so cruel a priest?”

The old man’s trembling hand smoothed her hair; he could not speak yet.

“_Mon gran’-père_, Margot,” Gabriel said bravely, “I have that to tell
you which may grieve your hearts; but my mind is made up. I have,
indeed, changed since we parted. I am no longer a Christian as your
church holds such.”

“Your church!” This could mean but one thing—their Gabriel was then, in
truth, a heretic! But the low-breathed “Helas, _mon fils_,” which
escaped the old man was not echoed by his granddaughter. She raised her
head and looked at her cousin, who had sprung to his feet and was pacing
the floor like a young lion.

“No,” he cried. “If to do such in the name of the Father and the gentle
mother of a gentle Saviour is to be a Christian, then am I none! If to
be a missionary of the church is to spur poor savages on to be more
cruel, more treacherous, than in their ignorance they were, then heaven
grant that no holy church may ever receive them! If to be false to every
given vow, to strike the enemy in the back, to hate even as do the
devils in hell, is to be a Christian, then no Christian am I!”

He returned to the fireside, and sinking upon the high-backed settle,
relapsed into reverie so profound as to become oblivious of his
surroundings.

“And if thou dost proclaim thyself a heretic, _mon fils_,” observed
Grétin at length fearfully, “what is to become of us?”

“Alas, at best what can I do for you, honored _gran’-père_? Is not even
now that vindictive priest on my track? And may it not be that he may
yet take my life because I will not aid him in his treacherous plot? I
have escaped him once, but only by the aid of Jean Jacques, and now that
gold has come from France, Jean Jacques will love French crowns better
than my life.”

“_M. l’Abbé_ never takes lives, my son,” said the old man rebukingly.

“And why not, _mon gran’-père_? May it not have been because none dared
oppose him?”

Grétin sighed heavily, but made no reply, and Gabriel continued:

“All here are his tools, the Acadians from fear, the Indians for gold. I
am no tool, and for that, if needs be, I must suffer. But you—ah, my
beloved and dear!” He sank impulsively upon his knees, and throwing his
arm around his cousin and leaning his head on his grandsire’s knees,
yielded himself to an abandonment of grief.

Finally Margot spoke, quietly and decisively.

“Dear Gabriel, thou canst indeed do nothing for us and thou art in peril
here. Thou must make thy way with all speed to thy friend, the New
England _prêtre_; he will succor and aid thee. Thou art like the
Huguenots and the Puritans; thou wilt have to suffer for conscience’
sake.”

She smiled bravely, but her lips trembled.

“But you,” Gabriel groaned, “you!”

The poor boy was passing through that bitterest trial of all,
experiencing what to all martyrs is worse than any fiery stake, the
helpless, incomparable anguish of bringing suffering on those dearer to
him than life. What if in the saving of his own soul alive he should
have to trample over the bodies of the beloved? Might not his course be
the very acme of self-seeking? What recompense could the martyr’s crown
confer for this mortal agony of vicarious suffering?

But Margot’s steady, quiet voice went on; her soft touch was on his
head. Timid she might be, but ah, brave, brave too!

“He will not hurt us, the _abbé_,” she said. “Do not fear, my cousin. If
thou dost stay with us, thou wilt have to act a lie every day. Even
should he refrain from pressing thee into his schemes, he will watch
thee, and not one single ordinance of our church wilt thou be permitted
to elude. He can be very hard, our _abbé_. No, dear Gabriel, vain is it
to strive to serve two masters; if of our faith, thou must remain here
and profess it; if of the other, thou must go.”

She averted her head and further speech failed her.

At that moment there was a violent knocking on the door. Gabriel was on
his feet at once, alert, resolute once more.

“I knew he would track me,” he said, “but I had hoped not to be found
here, and neither will I. Adieu, _mon gran’-père_. God in very truth
keep you! Margot, the small door into the cowpen.”

At a word from the girl, Grétin crept into his covered bed in the wall,
while she and Gabriel slipped noiselessly away through a back entrance.

“Let us go with thee, dear cousin,” implored Margot, as they paused for
an instant among the cows, her fears for him making her once more timid.

“_Ma chérie_, no! Ah, my best beloved!”

He clasped her to his breast, kissed her passionately, as never before,
on brow, cheek, and lips, and was gone.

On the house door the knocking continued, and the _gran’-père’s_ voice
was heard in the accents of one aroused from sleep. Margot, hastily
composing her features and trusting that the traces of tears would not
be visible in the light of the dying fire, re-entered the kitchen and,
after much fumbling and delay, opened the door. Without stood Le Loutre,
accompanied as usual by his “lambs.” Without deigning to address her, he
snatched a torch from one of the Indians and, striding into the small
house, explored every corner. Even the cowpen was not left unsearched.
On pretense of arranging the bed-covering, Margot bent over her
grandfather.

“Delay him if you can,” she breathed; “every moment is precious.”

But the priest was already at her side.

“Where is the malicious heretic, at last avowed?” he thundered.

“Ah, where is he, _M. l’Abbé_?” exclaimed Grétin, raising himself on his
elbow, endued with a sudden excess of courage at the thought of Gabriel
wandering alone through the perils of the forest. “Where is the boy, the
son of my loved and only daughter, my heart’s treasure? Where is he,
Gabriel, staff of my old age?”

For a moment the furious priest was confounded. The color mounted to his
dark cheeks and he hesitated. The old man’s aspect was almost
threatening, and if fanaticism had left Le Loutre a conscience, it
surely spoke then. But the momentary weakness passed.

“And thou wouldst shelter a heretic,” he said sternly, “recusant son of
Mother Church that thou art! But she chastens, if in love, yet she
chastens. Hope not for further grace. As for the boy, he must be brought
back into the fold. This I have ere now told thee, and I repeat it. Me,
the chosen instrument of God and the king, he cannot escape. Faithless
as thou mayst be, thou canst not keep him from me. This very night he
shall be forced back to his duty. As for thyself and the girl——”

He paused, the terrible look in his eyes. But it was enough. Further
words were unnecessary. And as the torches danced away like fireflies
into the forest shades, Margot, now completely exhausted, flung herself
down beside the old man and, with an arm about his neck, wailed:
“_Gran’-père_, my _gran’-père_, they will find him!”

And the hopeless response came: “_Ma fille_, they cannot fail to do it.
Let us pray.”

Feebly he arose, and hand in hand the helpless pair kneeled before the
image of the sorrowing Christ.


                              CHAPTER III

Concealed in the branches of a wide-spreading oak, Gabriel hoped against
hope to remain hidden from the Micmac trailers, now close on his heels.
White men his woodcraft would enable him to elude, but Indians hardly.
His very breathing seemed as if it must betray him.

Listening thus, every nerve an ear, he heard a slight sound in the deep
glade beneath. To the novice it might mean anything or nothing; to his
practised understanding it was the crack of a twig beneath a human foot.

Carefully he surveyed his position. The moon, though near its setting,
still afforded light sufficient to betray him should its rays fall on
face or hands. Then, for the first time, he perceived that, as he lay
face downward on a branching limb, the hand with which he sustained
himself was palely illuminated; the moon, in her swift course, had
penetrated the sheltering foliage. What should he do? To move meant
certain discovery. He resolved to lie still, the chances being slightly
in favor of absolute stillness. Then he became aware that some one was
standing beneath the tree. Now in actual fact he held his breath; for
though his sight could not pierce the leaves, every other sense told him
that it was an Indian. But his hopes were vain. Another moment and he
knew the tree was being climbed.

As the green grasshopper clings, even after detection, blindly to the
leaf that it so closely resembles, so Gabriel clung instinctively to his
branch, and even when a sinewy hand grasped his ankle, made no sign. The
forest-bred boy obeyed the instinct of all woodland creatures; besides,
there was one hope left, faint as it was, and were he to move or speak
he might lose even that.

“Wild Deer?”

“Jean Jacques?”

Wild Deer was the name by which the friendly Micmacs called him. Now for
the test. Was the Indian true?

“Wild Deer, the great medicine man of your tribe is on the trail.”

“I know. What wilt thou do? Betray me to him?”

The low-breathed question and answer swept quickly back and forth.

“The red man betrays not him who is skilled as himself.”

“What wilt thou do then?”

“Let Wild Deer descend and follow his friend.”

Gliding to the ground with a noiselessness and rapidity equal to that of
the Indian, Gabriel, at a sign from his companion, followed him on his
sinuous track. Was he his friend? He had dwelt too long with the red men
not to dread the treachery which is the inevitable consequence of
centuries of savage and relentless warfare, tribe with tribe, red man
with white man. Nevertheless, he pushed on; what else could he do?

The gray dawn peered beneath a veil of cloud before they paused on the
edge of the forest. Gabriel’s powers were well-nigh spent; ill treatment
and privation had sapped his young strength. The spot where they had
halted was the last camping-ground of the Micmacs. Going to a hollow
tree, Jean Jacques drew from it some strips of sun-dried beef and a few
dried leaves, which Gabriel recognized as those of the coca plant, on
which, when unable to obtain food, the red man makes arduous journeys,
lasting for days together.

“Eat,” he said with native brevity; “then put these leaves in thy mouth
and chew them as we go. The strength of the pale face will come back to
him as that of the young eagle.”

Gabriel obeyed, imitating the taciturnity of the Indian. When at length,
refreshed and strengthened, he arose to prosecute his attempt to reach
Halifax, Jean Jacques, with a grunt, declined not only to be thanked,
but to leave him.

“I too go to the new fort,” he remarked calmly.

“Thou wilt go?”

A sudden suspicion overwhelmed him. Could it be that his apparent rescue
was one of the priest’s deep laid plots? That Jean Jacques, heavily
bribed with French gold, was but carrying out some scheme of treachery
which should involve the defenders of the fort as well as himself? The
supposition was an only too plausible one, given such a man as Le Loutre
and such lucre-lovers as the Micmacs. The Indian’s impervious
countenance revealed nothing. To question him would be vain. Well, he
must go forward and hope for the best; no other course was open to him.

Silently, at the steady Indian dog-trot, the pair pressed on. As mile
after mile was covered, Gabriel’s strength seemed to renew itself, even,
indeed, as that of the young eagle; hope revived within his breast,
ministering to his keen vitality; and when at last the Indian paused,
and kneeling, examined in ominous silence a bent twig here, a crushed
blade of grass there, and finally laid his ear to the ground, Gabriel
was inclined to scout Jean Jacques’ fears and his own suspicions.

“Feet have passed this way,” muttered Jean Jacques, “feet of red men,
with them a white man. Let Wild Deer put his head to the ground, and he
will hear them yet. But our trail they have lost. They wander, seeking
it.”

Striking in the opposite direction, they proceeded cautiously. Then
again the Indian stopped and listened after his manner.

“They come,” he said, as he once more arose, “many of them. They go to
the fort; but they will not go until they find Wild Deer to carry him
with them. But Jean Jacques will be his guide, he shall escape them.”

At nightfall they crept beneath a pile of brush and leaves, concealing
the deserted lair of a gray fox, and Gabriel, worn out now, and happy in
the thought of at sunrise being free to abandon the circuitous route and
making straight for the fort, but a few miles distant, soon fell asleep.

But there is many a slip, etc. It seemed to him that he had slept but
five minutes when he was aroused by a flash of light in his eyes, and he
opened them to find himself in the grasp of half a dozen Micmacs, behind
them Le Loutre. Jean Jacques was nowhere to be seen. Speechless, he
looked from one dark face to another; every one of them he knew to be
unfriendly, or at least corrupted by French gold. His young heart felt
nigh to bursting. So near the goal and to be thwarted thus! So near the
new life, in which, in his youthful enthusiasm, he believed he could be
true to the highest that was in him, true to his grandfather and Margot,
vaguely but ardently hopeful that he could save them. And Jean Jacques?
Had he indeed betrayed him?

It was one of those moments of discouragement in which even the falsity
of an untutored savage can pierce the very soul.

“Bind him, and bring him on!” was the priest’s stern command.

Bewildered by fatigue, sick with disappointment, Gabriel offered no
resistance, uttered no word. He was dragged about a mile and then
dropped rudely by the embers of a camp-fire. Waving his “lambs” to a
distance, Le Loutre addressed him in accents cold as steel and merciless
as the hand that drives it home.

“Have I not told thee that thou canst not escape me, I, the chosen
instrument of God to bring stragglers back into the fold? My duty is
clear. He who will not bend must break.”

He paused, but his hearer made no sign.

“Thou knowest what is demanded of thee. This day my converts go on a
friendly mission to the new fort. Must I instruct thee yet again in thy
duty?”

He waited for the response that came not. Gabriel lay as if life itself
were already crushed out of him; every drooping finger of his strong,
right hand nerveless, hopeless. Yet must there have been something of
tacit resistance in his air, for Le Loutre continued in tones of
exasperation:

“Opposition will avail thee nothing, and for thy grandfather and cousin
it will mean suffering and privation beyond their wildest dreams. Every
Acadian is rewarded according to his loyalty to the king and to the true
church. Hitherto I have spared them, but it is I alone who have the
ordering of their going, and of the new home to which they journey. The
_gran’-père_ is old, Margot more tender than is the habit of Acadian
maidens, yet must the church not stay her hand when the saving of souls
is in the balance. She must make example, she must discipline. I am no
man meting out man’s justice,” continued the fanatic, raising his hands
solemnly, “but chosen of the church to execute her righteous will. This
being so, thou wilt find me relentless in my duty.”

Gabriel’s benumbed senses, together with the spirit that in some natures
never slumbers long, were reawakening. He found himself wondering why
this autocratic priest, before whom all trembled, should find it
necessary to explain his conduct to a mere boy. Then, as mental vigor
returned more fully, he drew his exhausted body into a sitting posture,
and said:

“_M. l’Abbé_ commands that I shall go with these savages?”

“Converts to the true church,” interrupted Le Loutre imperiously. “Who
dares call baptized Christians savages?”

“I name them according to their deeds,” continued Gabriel, with a
certain manly dignity which had come to him of late. “Holy water on the
brow does not change the heart.”

“It doth not!” cried the priest in the same tone. “Jean Jacques is a
pervert—perverted by thyself from the true faith.”

“Yet he has played me false,” exclaimed Gabriel bitterly.

“Dull-witted boy! Knowest thou no better than that?”

Could it be? Was Jean Jacques faithful? Not only that, but free to help
him again? Hope kindled once more within his breast. Then he rose to his
feet and looked straight into the eyes of Le Loutre.

[Illustration: “‘M. l’Abbé commands——.’”]

“It is the will of _M. l’Abbé_,” he said again, “that I should go to
Halifax on this ‘friendly’ mission? The Micmacs will camp without the
fort, I shall be received within, and can then learn more than I know
already of its defenses and of the habits of its defenders. The Indians,
being friendly, will pass in and out with me, two or three perhaps only;
I am to guide them with what secrecy I may from one portion of the
stronghold to another, and they in turn will pass on their knowledge to
the waiting horde concealed within reach, and then at a given signal the
attack is to be made, and, they and I alike familiar with the weak
points of the fort and other matters, they will easily gain entrance,
and put all to fire and sword? Is this the will of _M. l’Abbé_?”

Le Loutre looked back at him consideringly. Keen-sighted, as he was, he
scarce knew what to make of this boy. Then he said:

“You swear it in the name of the Holy Mother of God?”

“I promise nothing,” said Gabriel steadily.

“Then,” cried the priest with a sudden burst of fury, “remember this: If
thou dost play the traitor——”

“He can be no traitor,” Gabriel interposed, with a calm which compelled
a hearing, “who gives no promise, except that if it be within his power
he will defeat the plot laid.”

“No matter what thou art,” burst forth Le Loutre again, “thou art false
to the faith in which thou hast been reared. But forget not that thy
course will be watched, and that if my commands are not obeyed thy
grandfather and cousin will pay the forfeit—yes, with their very lives.
Dost hear me?”

Gabriel, pale before, whitened now to the lips. But he kept his
steadfast eyes on the priest’s face as he replied:

“I hear, _M. l’Abbé_.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

The blue waves of the harbor of Chebucto leaped gayly landward before
the strong south wind. On the wooden ramparts of Halifax the sentinels
kept watch, specks of scarlet betwixt the blue of sea and sky, moving,
automaton-like, on their appointed rounds. But the automatons possessed
eyes, nevertheless, and those directed north were riveted on a band of
Indians who, since sunrise, had been busy getting into camp about half a
mile from the post.

The British colony at Halifax was now, counting those within and without
its walls, over three thousand strong, and though the settlers without
had been sorely harassed by Indians—whom the governor was beginning at
last to suspect were set on by the French, despite the peace nominally
existing between the two nations—they continued to thrive and increase.
The Indians at present camping so near were soon recognized as Micmacs,
who had made a solemn treaty with the British the previous year,
consequently their appearance created but slight interest.

In his own simple apartments the “brave, sensible young man, of great
temper and good nature,” was writing, with what for him was unusual
irascibility, a letter to the Bishop of Quebec. But his patience had
been sorely tried. “Was it you,” he wrote, “who sent Le Loutre as a
missionary to the Micmacs? And is it for their good that he excites
these wretches to practise their cruelties against those who have shown
them every kindness? The conduct of the priests of Acadia has been such
that by command of his majesty I have published an order declaring that
if any one of them presumes to exercise his functions without my express
permission he shall be dealt with according to the laws of England.”

Having finished his letter he gave orders that the French priest,
Girard, should be invited to a final audience. Obedient to the summons,
an elderly man, of strong and gentle countenance, made his appearance.
Bidding him be seated, Cornwallis addressed him courteously in French.

“_M. le Curé_,” he began, “you know that you are one of very few who
have been required to take the oath to do nothing contrary to the
interests of the country I serve. Is not that so?”

The priest bent his head with quiet dignity.

“I believe now that of you it was not necessary to exact it.”

“Pardon, _M. le Gouverneur_, of me it was not exacted. I rendered it.”

“Pardon, _M. le Curé_, you are in the right. I owe you an apology.”

“_Monsieur_ has nothing for which to make amends. He is all honor and
generosity.”

Cornwallis bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, then continued:

“There are many, however, of whom it would be as well for these simple
Acadians as for helpless English settlers that the oath of allegiance to
my king were demanded. This Abbé Le Loutre, for example, he is a very
firebrand. Nay, rather a wolf in sheep’s clothing, working havoc in the
poor, silly flock. Know you him, _M. le Curé_?”

The priest lowered his eyes.

“_M. le Gouverneur_,” he replied in a constrained tone, “it is contrary
to the habit of my order to say of our superior, He is wrong or he is
right.”

“Once more, pardon!” cried the younger man frankly. “I made an error.
Tell me, M. Girard, on your return to Cobequid, what course will you
pursue?”

“In accordance with my oath, _M. le Gouverneur_, I shall inform M.
Longueuil that I can make no effort to prevent my people from submitting
to you, according to their own desires.”

“And what, think you, your governor will reply?”

“I know not, _monsieur_, but it is probable that I shall be compelled to
retire from my position.”

The two men, of different creed and antagonistic blood, looked each
other full in the face. Then, with manifestations of mutual respect,
clasped hands.

“Adieu, _M. le Curé_.”

“Adieu, _M. le Gouverneur_. The saints have you in their holy keeping,
and bring you to the shelter of the true fold.”

But as Girard turned to go, Cornwallis spoke again:

“M. Girard, there is a lad here, half Acadian, half British, know you
aught of him?”

“Gabriel—ah, the hard name! I cannot call it.”

“Yet did the name and he that originally bore it sail once with your own
conquering William from the land of your birth. Champernowne—it is a
Norman name—and you, you yourself come from _la belle Normandie_, is it
not so, _M. le Curé_?”

“It is true, _monsieur_. But this boy, I have heard of him from the
_curé_ at Port Royal. He is a good boy, though, alas, no longer of our
faith.”

“He is to be trusted?”

“So I have been assured, _monsieur_.”

Meanwhile another scene was being enacted under the eastern rampart. “In
the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Gabriel, I baptize
thee.”

The brief ceremony was at an end, and the few witnesses departed.

Feeling somehow encouraged by this open profession of his inward
convictions to thread the difficult maze that lay before him, Gabriel
joined the New England minister at his frugal meal, and then at his
advice betook himself to an upper chamber to rest his weary body. But
rest to aching heart and tired brain would not come. In whom should he
confide? What should he do? Even his knowledge of the English tongue was
limited, though it fitted readily to his own, and he felt that he would
soon be master of it. Of but one thing was he certain; come what would,
he must now cast in his lot with his father’s race. There were ways by
which he could earn his bread—he, active and vigorous and accustomed to
labor. And the colonists, they would need defenders; he could handle a
musket with the best, and endure long marches. Then, with a groan he
turned his face to the wall. Margot—the grandfather! Like a knife
turning in his heart the harrowing dread would not be stilled. Nothing
could be done, no revelation of intended treachery made, until these two
were beyond the reach of Le Loutre and his terrible threats. And the
days would slip past as the hours were slipping now. Could, would, the
English governor help them? Then slowly, like swallows sailing
circlewise ever nearer and nearer their resting place, his revolving
thoughts settled down upon their nest. Yes, there was one hope. He
sprang from the bed and was out of the house in less time than it takes
to write the words.

“M. Girard, M. Girard,” he said to himself as he hastened along. But
when he arrived at the priest’s lodging, he was informed that _M. le
Curé_ had started two hours before for Cobequid.

The woman of the house, mother herself of stalwart sons, felt her heart
stir in pity for this splendid-looking youth, with the “air noble” and
the sad face. She was a former parishioner of M. Girard, an Acadian come
hither from Cobequid.

“But see,” she said, following him out of the door, “_M. le Curé_ was to
tarry awhile at the Indian camp. Maybe he is still there.”

With a word of thanks Gabriel hastened away. Yet back to the Indian
camp, that nest of traitors. There was, however, no help for it. In any
case he would have to return to the camp at nightfall, for he was
closely watched, and his plans were not yet ripe for defying his dusky
guardians, two or three of whom on the morrow expected to be conducted
within the walls of Halifax. To obtain private speech with the _curé_
would no doubt be difficult, but it must be done. Fortune favored him.
As he skirted the low hills to the eastward of the camp, watching his
opportunity, he beheld a man in priestly garb, escorted by some Cobequid
Acadians, who had voluntarily visited Halifax to take the new oath of
allegiance, making his way across the levels in the direction of the
forest. Girard’s adieu to Le Loutre’s “lambs” was, then, made. Weary and
spent as he was, Gabriel put forth his last remaining strength and ran
swiftly forward to intercept the party. He accomplished his object, and
standing respectfully before the priest returned his gentle greeting.

“And who art thou, my son?”

“My name, _mon père_, is Gabriel, grandson of Pierre Grétin, habitan of
Port Royal.”

A long-drawn “Ah!” escaped M. Girard’s lips. Then taking the boy by the
arm he led him out of earshot, and seating himself on a small hillock,
said kindly:

“Rest, my son. The sun is yet some hours high, and thou art weary, and
hast a tale to tell.”

“Oh, _mon père_!” cried Gabriel, then stopped, unable to proceed.

This son of a mixed race could be steadfast as well as brave, but that
intense vitality which sends the warm life-blood coursing through the
veins like a torrent instead of as a calm and sluggish stream, even
while acting as a spur to noble endeavor and keeping the heart forever
young, exacts also its penalties. Now that the moment had arrived on
which all his hopes hung, Gabriel was past speech. He lay face downward
on the short turf, struggling with a burst of passionate tears that
would not be repressed.

“Weep, my son, weep,” said the kind old man, laying his hand on the fair
head, “thou hast endured much, and thou art but a lad. Moreover, thou
hast this day solemnly abjured thy mother’s faith. I reproach thee not,
but for a youth such as thou, thou didst take upon thyself a grave
responsibility.”

But Gabriel was pulling himself together, and presently he sat up and
shook the curls back from his eyes.

“_Mon père_,” he said, still clinging to the old loved title familiar to
him from earliest childhood, “that I know; I considered long; and forget
not that the faith to which I have turned was the faith of my father.
But it is not of myself I would speak, it is of those dearer to me than
life.”

Then briefly he narrated the events that had occurred, his forced
abandonment of his grandfather and cousin, their desolate and helpless
condition, and the _abbé’s_ threats should he fail in the task demanded
of him.

“And this task I cannot and will not fulfill,” concluded Gabriel firmly;
“then should I be traitor indeed.”

M. Girard’s face had grown very sad. The conduct of Le Loutre had caused
him and many another gentle-hearted priest much sorrow. Yet he was the
superior; his authority could not be questioned. He remained silent for
a while; then spoke, not without hesitation.

“My son,” he said, “there is a way, but even that way is not without
difficulties. Thy cousin—Margot—our Acadian youth are often
householders at thine age. Yes, I know, those of English blood are more
backward in such matters, but there must be true affection betwixt you,
and for thy wife she is altogether suitable. Thus thou couldst protect
her and the _gran’-père_ also. The saints forbid that I should encourage
a union betwixt a heretic and a daughter of the church were there any
other way, and did I not hope much from her influence. Wives have
brought erring husbands back to the true fold ere now, and thou art
scarce experienced enough to have embraced for reasons that will endure
another faith. It was resentment, not conviction, that led thee astray.

“Among the Acadians protected by the fort the followers of the Holy
Catholic Church dwell in peace, ministered to by priests who have taken
the oath of allegiance to the English king. There, with Margot for thy
wife, thou wilt return to the true faith.”

The good old priest, pleased with the future his imagination had
created, rambled on. But after the first Gabriel hardly heard him.
_Margot his wife!_ The hot blood flamed to cheek and brow, then the
flash faded, leaving him paler than before. Who was it that dared thus
to handle the sweet familiar affection, from whose leaves the delicate
bud, destined in the fullness of time to expand into the radiant flower
of a strong man’s love, peeped forth so timidly that he himself had not
yet ventured to do more than glance at it and then avert his eyes? When
had he first known that those cool, green leaves held for him such a
pearl of price? It was at his last parting from Margot, when forced to
flee and leave those so helpless and so dear to the mercy of Le Loutre.
The remembrance of this parting had never left him, despite danger,
suffering, dread, not for one little hour. But that any one should speak
of that of which he had never yet spoken to himself! Gradually, however,
the sense of shock, of desecration, faded; and when after a long and
patient waiting M. Girard addressed him almost in the very words once
used by the _abbé_, but with very different intention, his answer this
time was prompt and decisive.

“_Mon fils_, art thou boy or man?”

“I am a man, _mon père_.”

“Well, think on what I have said.”

The priest gathered up his skirts and arose.

“But, Margot, _mon père_? Her desires may be quite other——”

Gabriel’s cheeks were hot again. He faltered in his speech. The old man
looked him up and down. Yes, he was a goodly youth. A queer little smile
flickered on the priest’s thin-lipped mouth, but all he said was:

“My son, these things arrange themselves.”

He turned to go. Gabriel stood where he had left him, dreamy-eyed and
quiet. Then, with a start he came to himself. He was allowing M. Girard
to go, and nothing was settled. This was no time for dreams impossible
of immediate fulfillment; there was work to be done, and that quickly.
With one bound he had overtaken the priest and laid his hand on his arm.

“But soon—in a day, two days—the _abbé_ will know me disobedient
here,” he cried. “I cannot go to Port Royal, neither can the
_gran’-père_ endure the toilsome journey hither. O _mon père_, advise,
counsel me.”

The priest paused, irresolute.

“My son, in this matter of the fort I cannot advise thee. For the
_gran’-père_ and the little Margot I will give them what protection I
may. _M. l’Abbé_ visits Cobequid on matters concerning the oath I have
taken, and I will represent to him that thou art one whom to drive is
vain, but that thou canst be led. Put thy faith in the Holy Mother, _mon
fils_, she will intercede for thee and thine. Ah, I had forgotten, thou
art no longer of the faith. Adieu, then, poor youth.”

With a cold chill at his heart, and a sense of desolation such as never
in his young life he had felt before, Gabriel watched the figure of him
who represented his last hope disappear into the now darkening shades of
the forest.

But sometimes it happens that hope is never so near us as when we deem
her fled. As Gabriel slowly bent his steps toward the settlement by the
way that he had come, a dusky form glided out from the hills and
confronted him.

“I have sought Wild Deer long,” said a well-known voice, “and at last I
find him.”

“Jean Jacques.”

“It is he. But say not that Jean Jacques was faithless to the paleface
boy. He was not. Let Wild Deer clasp hands with the Micmac, and all may
yet be well.”


                               CHAPTER IV

Night had closed in around the new fort of Halifax and upon the houses
clustered about its walls. With a beating heart Gabriel leaned against
the postern, waiting for the expected summons from the lambs of Le
Loutre. What if his plans should fail? What if the governor’s trust in
the word of a mere boy should falter? What if the feet of Jean Jacques
should waver ere the goal was reached?

Gabriel had followed that rarely misleading impulse which impels one
soul of honor to confide in another, no matter what the dividing line
between them, whether of sex, age, or degree. Cornwallis knew all, and
Jean Jacques was on his way to remove the _gran’-père_ and Margot to a
place of safety, if yet there might be time.

Time! Yes, time was all that Gabriel needed for the escape of those whom
he loved, happen what might to himself. Yet on his own safety theirs in
part depended, he thought. How should the riddle be solved?

The peace and well-being of those two once secured, he would spread his
untried wings and do more than merely dream of a new life beyond the
bars of the narrow cage in which his life had hitherto been passed. He
longed to lead a man’s life,—worthy of Margot, worthy of his dead
father,—not that of a dull steer hitched to a plow!

He had not told Cornwallis that among the Micmacs incited to this deed
of treachery there were in all probability some of his own countrymen
disguised as Indians. It was the policy of Le Loutre to induce by
threats or bribes the more or less reluctant Acadians to perform such
services. It was easy for the priest to protest in case of the capture
of the Acadians that it was not the French who had broken the peace, but
the inhabitants themselves, of their own free will. The Acadians were
useful for the encouragement of the Indians; therefore were they used.
Gabriel reasoned that not until the presence of the Acadians was
discovered would the time arrive to plead for them. The governor was a
man of kind heart as well as of good sense, and the boy would represent
to him the simplicity and ignorance of these his country-people, who,
although not loving those of alien blood, would assuredly have lived
peaceably under their rule, had it not been for their priest’s threats
and their terror of eternal damnation. Gabriel knew, but would never
add, that the cowardice of weak natures was allied with its almost
inevitable comrades, deceit and untruthfulness.

Whilst Gabriel waited without, Cornwallis sat in his room, the tallow
candles in the silver sconces brought from England shedding their
flaring light upon his bowed head. He had dismissed his council and was
alone with his secretary. His kind, manly face was clouded with
dejection. His term of service was drawing to a close, and despite his
efforts, the Acadians were no better off than before. Presently he arose
and began pacing the floor.

“Poor, unhappy people!” he exclaimed. “Why cannot they understand that
France but uses them as in the ancient fable the monkey used the cat?
They were contented enough before this priest came to scare their small
wits out of them.”

“Yet, my lord,” put in the secretary, “I have heard that the Acadians
were ever a contentious race, given to petty strife and over fond of the
law.”

The governor smiled.

“And who would deny them those simple joys in their dull lives? Their
harmless disputes kept the sluggish blood moving in their veins and
serious trouble was rare. Now all is changed. If by their vacillation
they drive us to stern courses, sad, alas, will be their fate. We have
borne much treachery, but the end is at hand.”

“It will be well for them, my lord, if your successor is as forbearing
as yourself,” observed the secretary gathering up his papers.

There was a knock at the door, and Gabriel’s fair head appeared.

“They are here, my lord,” he said in a low voice.

“Do you retire, then, my son,” replied the governor; “your safety
demands that you should not know too much if it be that you still desire
to go with these savages.”

“It is my only hope, my lord.”

“And if you fail?” Cornwallis added, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s
shoulder. “What then? Remember, that if you find neither Jean Jacques
nor those dear to you, the country to whom your father proved his
allegiance owes you in turn something.”

“Whether my quest be vain or no,” and Gabriel’s voice faltered, “God
sparing me, I shall return to serve under the flag for which my father
fought and died, and in the faith that was his.”

“God keep you, then,” said the governor fervently, and turned aside.

Great, indeed, was the astonishment of Jean Baptiste Cope, the favorite
chief of Le Loutre, when he found himself ushered into the presence of
the governor. He knew that the priest had commanded Gabriel to take
advantage of his knowledge of the fort and of the habits of the sentries
to admit the Micmacs into the building at the dead of night, while all
save the sentries slept; yet here was the dead of night and here stood
the governor himself, cool and grave, and the fort was alive with
wakeful and armed men.

Cornwallis held in hand a treaty of peace, to which these same Micmacs
had solemnly affixed their totems less than one year before. He was
empowered by his government to go to almost any length in the matter of
bribes and presents to bind the Indians to peace, as by such means alone
was peace for the whole unhappy country to be secured. Le Loutre,
deprived of his lambs, would be practically powerless to stir up strife.
Already Cornwallis foresaw the tragic outcome of this long-continued
trouble. The vacillations and treachery of the wretched Acadians
rendered justice, law, and order alike impossible, and peace and
prosperity were out of the question so long as they hesitated betwixt
two masters. That Le Loutre was well paid for his services Cornwallis
was assured. As the French minister wrote to Prévost, the intendant at
Louisbourg, a French possession in Acadie: “The fear is that the zeal of
Le Loutre and Maillard,” another equally bigoted priest, “may carry them
too far. Excite them to keep the Indians in our interest, but do not let
them compromise us. Act always so as to make the English appear as
aggressors.”

Bearing these things in mind, Cornwallis bent all his energies to
winning over the Micmac lambs, and after a long pow-wow, the pipe of
peace was again smoked and “Major” Cope, as he called himself, swore for
his tribe allegiance to the English government. Laden with gifts and
escorted by the governor in person, they forsook their camp the
following afternoon and embarked on a small schooner, manned by an
English crew which outnumbered the little band of savages. With them
went Gabriel.

Four weeks later Prévost wrote to the French minister: “Last month the
savages took eighteen English scalps, and M. Le Loutre was obliged to
pay them eighteen hundred _livres_, Acadian money, which I have
reimbursed him.”

And the _gran’-père_ and Margot, where were they?

Jean Jacques, with the subtlety of his race, did not go direct to
Annapolis. He was aware that many of the Acadians had been induced by Le
Loutre to leave the river valley and had betaken themselves to the
larger settlement of Beaubassin; and later rumors had reached him that
the English were about to lay claim to their own and send a small force
under Lawrence—destined to be governor of the province—to quell the
constant disaffection created by the French troops at Beauséjour, across
the Missaguash. It was to Beaubassin, then, that the Micmac turned his
steps.

He arrived to find a scene of wild terror; that which has been termed
the first expulsion of the Acadians was in full progress.

It was evening, and the western sky was dark with clouds, but as Jean
Jacques, at the rapid Indian dog-trot, stole swiftly toward the
settlement, he observed to himself that the villagers would have scant
need of their tallow dips that night. In huddled groups—the women and
children wailing, the men almost equally demoralized—the unfortunate
Acadians watched the destruction of their homes; not only so, but what
was worse to the many devout among them, the same devouring flames
consuming their church. And the moving spirit of this tragic scene was
their own _abbé_—he whom they had revered and wholly feared.

The imposing figure of Le Loutre stood out in bold relief against the
blazing edifice. Crucifix held aloft, he incited his Micmacs, genuine
and spurious alike, to the dreadful deed.

Jean Jacques mingled unremarked with his tribe.

“It is for the good of your souls, my people!” thundered the enthusiast.
“You refused to obey the gentle voice of the true church and follow
where she leads. Now your salvation must be wrought for you; to live at
ease under the protection of heretics will bring damnation on your
souls.”

“Charlot, what does the priest to the palefaces?”

At the sound of his own name the Acadian, disguised in paint and
feathers, started violently, but peering into the face of Jean Jacques
his fears were quieted.

“’Tis for the good of their souls,” he repeated, as a sullen boy
reciting a lesson.

Seizing him by the arm, the Micmac drew him out of the throng. A brief
colloquy ensued, punctuated by Jean Jacques with grunts of disapproval;
then, releasing the Acadian, he made his way unheeded in the commotion
toward a small hut, as yet beyond the reach of the flames. Pushing open
the door, he entered.

Upon a couch of moss in a corner lay an old man, evidently dying. Beside
him knelt a priest performing the last sacred offices of the Catholic
Church, and a young girl, the tears upon her pale, worn cheeks. At a
glance the Indian perceived that he had found those he sought—Pierre
Grétin, Margot, and the good priest of Cobequid, M. Girard. Had the
priest not been too much absorbed in his solemn duty to notice the
newcomer, the significant fact that the so-called ‘convert’ failed to
cross himself would not have passed unobserved. Jean Jacques kneeled
down, however, reverently enough.

All that night the circle of fire slowly widened, spreading ever more
slowly because the clouds broke in heavy showers; but at length, soon
after the poor old man had breathed his last and the bright dawn was
illuminating the clearing sky, Jean Jacques saw that another place of
refuge must be sought from the fire. Gathering up the few articles the
miserable hut contained, he sped with them to the shelter of the near-by
woods, and then returning he wrapped, with characteristic taciturnity,
the body of the _gran’-père_ in the blanket and, followed by the priest
and the weeping Margot, bore it also away.

“For the sainted _gran’-père_ there is no consecrated ground!” moaned
the girl, casting a backward glance at the smouldering ruins of the
church.

“Weep not for that, my daughter,” said the priest in soothing tones, as
he led her forward, “for the faithful servant holy ground shall be
found.”

He drew from beneath his robe a tiny vial of holy water and in due form
consecrated the spot of earth in the forest in which the _gran’-père_
was to rest. Then seizing one of the two mattocks brought from the hut,
he set to work with the Indian.

Few, indeed, were the tools or other possessions Pierre Grétin had
contrived to save in their compulsory flight from the pleasant home in
the Annapolis Valley—a flight which had taken place shortly after
Gabriel’s departure. Even then they might have held on longer had not an
ancient grudge on the part of a neighbor served to keep their obstinacy
ever before the eyes of Le Loutre; for it has been said that the
Acadians were a people given to petty squabbles. At Beaubassin they had
found refuge with many others of their race, but on English ground, and
it was on this account that the bigoted priest sought to remove them.
Long had the Acadians tacitly resisted, not out of love for the English,
but out of love for the peace so dear to their sluggish natures and
which they were permitted to enjoy under British rule, so long, at
least, as they refrained from meddling or from bearing arms.

“No coffin, _mon père_?” said Margot timidly at last.

For answer the priest stuck his spade into the ground; the work was
done. Then he pointed to a white sail upon the waters of Chignecto Bay.

“The English!” she murmured awestruck; and then again, “And no coffin,
_M. le Curé_?”

“The English are heretics, my daughter, but they do not desecrate
graves. The body of God’s servant will be as safe here as in his loved
Annapolis.”

Then Jean Jacques and M. Girard laid the body in the grave, and as the
priest took out his breviary and began to read the first words of the
office for the dead, the Micmac slipped away to the hut, thence to
remove the scanty remains of Margot’s possessions. The short service
over, Margot herself helped M. Girard in the filling of the grave.

But even as they worked the mingled sounds of lamentation and exultation
drew nearer, and just as the grave was filled, the imperious figure of
Le Loutre, his face alight with religious fervor, stood beside it.

“What doest thou here, brother?” he said sternly.

“What thou seest, _M. l’Abbé_. I lay in consecrated earth the remains of
this our brother in the faith.”

“In consecrated earth,” cried Le Loutre. “What earth is consecrated trod
by the feet of heretics? M. Girard, I exhort thee, in the name of the
holy mother of God, to remove to uncontaminated soil the body of this
servant of the true church.”

He pointed as he spoke to the crowd of hurrying fugitives pressing
across the water in boats and on rafts.

M. Girard faced his superior calmly. Well he knew that when, for the
sake of his flock as also for the sake of right, he had taken that oath
at Halifax, he had incurred the suspicion, nay anger, of his clerical
superiors; but in the mild eyes which he raised to the fierce ones of
the _abbé_ there was no fear—only the firmness which has led many as
gentle a martyr to the stake.

“_M. l’Abbé_ knows,” he said quietly, “that the ground consecrated by a
priest of the church becomes holy ground, and that to disturb the dead
laid therein is profanation.”

It seemed a long time to the anxious Margot before the silent duel was
decided, for some moments elapsed ere either spoke again. Then the hand
of Le Loutre slowly fell, and he averted his eyes. Not even his
arrogance could forswear the tenets of the church for which he fought so
zealously.

“But this maiden?”

He spoke with forced indifference.

“She would go under my protection to Cobequid.”

“That shall never be!” exclaimed Le Loutre violently. “Is not one of the
most rebellious of my flock her near kinsman, and shall that dangerous
and seditious youth have access to her? If thou dost desire so great a
wrong, _M. le Curé_——”

But before M. Girard could reply Margot was on her knees.

“_M. l’Abbé_,” she cried, “only tell me that Gabriel—_mon cousin_—is
alive and well, and I will ask nothing further.”

Le Loutre looked down upon the girl in silence, a contemptuous pity in
every line of his strongly marked features.

“If he is alive? that I cannot tell thee, maiden. One last chance have I
given the would-be renegade lest he become ere his time an outcast. How
he hath borne himself, I as yet know not.”

But M. Girard laid his hand kindly on the bowed dark head.

“My daughter, it is the wish of _M. l’Abbé_ that thou shouldst seek the
French shore. Louis Herbes, thy neighbor, crosses even now with his
wife; it would be well for thee to go with these kind friends.”

“And may I not pray one little hour beside the grave of him who was all
of father and mother I ever knew?” said Margot in stifled tones.

Le Loutre shrugged his shoulders; then crossed himself piously.

“As thou wilt, daughter. One little quarter of an hour will I give
thee.”

He linked his arm in that of the curé and walked away with him.

Scarcely had the priestly pair disappeared than the bushes at Margot’s
side rustled and Jean Jacques crept into view. Seizing her wrist in his
sinewy fingers he led her toward the shore, close to which was now
anchoring the English ship.

“The Micmac will find thee a refuge, maiden,” he said. “Follow Jean
Jacques, and all will be well.”

But the timid Acadian girl shrank from the Indian.

“To go among those redcoats—and alone, Jean Jacques? Oh, I cannot.”

“Did not Jean Jacques swear to Wild Deer that he would save his
kinswoman from the cruel priest?” said the Indian with stoicism, “and
will he not do it even with the strength of his arm? Neither do the
white braves harm women.”

“Yes—no—oh, I know not,” faltered Margot; “oh, leave me, Jean Jacques!
Yet tell me first, where is Gabriel?”

The Indian grunted.

“The Great Spirit knows, not I. But, maiden, while we waste words the
priest comes, and Jean Jacques is no longer of his faith; the faith of
the Micmac is the faith of the Wild Deer. Wilt thou come, or no?”

Margot started. “Then Gabriel is in truth a heretic!”

Whilst she hesitated, Jean Jacques, who was in no mood for delay, led
her deeper into the woods.

Now Margot, though, as we know, possessed of that kind of courage which
will bravely choose and do the right, and even be physically brave for
those she loved, was naturally timid, and now she was worn and exhausted
and scarcely mistress of herself. Her inborn terror of Indians got the
upper hand, and she uttered a piercing shriek, promptly stifled by the
Micmac’s hand upon her mouth. Then he suddenly released her.

“Maiden,” he said, “Jean Jacques can do no more. Thou wilt not seek
safety? So be it then. The priests come—Jean Jacques goes.”

The girl made a great effort, and though still very pale, held out her
hand with a smile to the Indian.

“Forgive me, Jean Jacques,” she said in tones which would have won
forgiveness anywhere; “my heart is sick, I know not what I do. Take me
whither thou wilt—whither Wild Deer wills.”

“And it shall not be to the redcoat braves,” said the Indian, as
together they sped through the undergrowth. “Down beside the crimson
Missaguash there are homes in which thy race still dwells in peace, even
as those who remain beside the Annapolis. Thither will the Micmac take
the maiden of Wild Deer.”

“Halt!” thundered a familiar voice. “A straying lamb, indeed—a lamb in
sore need of chastisement.”

But for once the fierce priest had reckoned amiss. Quicker than the
lightning’s flash the hand of the Indian went to his tomahawk, his eyes
glittering balefully. With a motion almost as rapid the whistle
wherewith Le Loutre summoned his lambs was at his lips, while with his
disengaged hand he held a crucifix aloft. But that almost might have
ruled betwixt life and death had not Margot sprung forward and placed
her slight body as a shield for the priest.

“Jean Jacques,” she cried, “is this thy new faith? to strike the
anointed of God?”

The upraised tomahawk dropped, and the Indian grunted sullenly. But Le
Loutre, the full violence of whose fanaticism was aroused by the
‘perversion’ of one of his lambs, was not to be so easily pacified,
though life itself were at stake; and the influence of the paleface
maiden might not have availed to save him, so irritating was the
language he used toward the already enraged Micmac, had not Margot,
aghast at the prospect of beholding the _abbé_ murdered before her very
eyes, hastily promised to go with him whither he would, if so be he
would permit the Indian to depart in peace.

“Swear upon the crucifix,” insisted Le Loutre, “that you will follow me
back to the true fold.”

Scarcely realized by herself, the girl’s heart and sense, and perhaps
also the recollection of Gabriel’s persecution, were combining to lead
her in spirit away from that fold; and now she drew back.

“I will take no oath, _mon père_,” she said gently, “but I promise to go
with thee now; more I cannot promise.”

Then she turned to Jean Jacques, holding out her hand in grateful
farewell.

[Illustration: “But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest.”]

“Seek thine own safety,” she said hurriedly, “and if _mon cousin_ lives,
tell him——”

Her voice broke, and she started to follow the already moving priest.

“If Gabriel lives!” cried another voice, and in a moment she was in the
arms of its owner.

What matter that he wore the scarlet coat of the British soldier, that
he had forsworn the faith of their common forefathers? Was he not
Gabriel still, the playmate of her childhood, and now, as she suddenly
understood, the lover of her youth?

It was but for a moment, and then the priest tore them asunder.

“Heretic boy!” he exclaimed, regardless of the Micmac, who once more
approached threateningly, “release this maiden, unworthy as thou art to
touch the hem of her garment.”

But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest. He freed Margot
from his embrace indeed, but held her hand firmly in his, and flushed
and smiling gazed upon the small, downcast face bright with rapture.

“It is with me thou comest, is it not so, _ma cousine_?” he said softly,
bending over her.

She lifted her dark eyes, and for a long minute they rested on his,
heedless of the objurgations of Le Loutre. Then she remembered, and her
face grew suddenly so pale that its wanness struck Gabriel with a great
fear. How much, ah, how much, she had suffered. He seemed to see it all
now.

“I have promised—I dare not break my sacred word.”

Her voice was barely audible.

“It is true,” cried the priest, thrusting himself so abruptly betwixt
the cousins as to compel Gabriel to drop the hand of the girl, “she has
promised to return to the true fold, and as the daughter of mother
church the touch of the heretic is defilement.”

Gabriel lifted his fair head with the old fearless air that had ever
exasperated the priest, while winning his reluctant admiration.

“It may be that I am no longer a boy,” he said coolly, “at least I am no
longer of your church; and by all laws human and divine, she being my
next of kin, this maiden has a right to my protection. Also, _M.
l’Abbé_, you are upon English ground.”

He pointed to the thin line of redcoats deploying upon a low hill some
distance away.

The face of Le Loutre was convulsed with hatred.

“The more reason that we swiftly depart,” he said. “Come, daughter, bear
in mind thy vow.”

Gabriel’s blue eyes flashed as Margot had so often seen them do in the
past. She pressed by the _abbé_, and taking her cousin’s outstretched
hands, said in a low, persuasive voice:

“Gabriel, _mon ami_, it is even so. I promised to go with _M. l’Abbé_ in
order to save his life; there was no other way. But the promise was only
for the day; I would make no further vow.”

Le Loutre watched the girl uneasily, for had she not refused to swear
upon the cross, and what was a mere promise without some appeal to
superstition? He could not comprehend the force of a higher influence
than that of mere symbolism.

Pale now as Margot herself Gabriel moved aside with her, holding her
hands, and looking down into the pathos of those dark eyes which
possessed, even as in the days when they were children together, power
to still the tumult in his breast—the rebellion of a nature more
passionate than her own.

“It is but for this one day, _mon_ Gabriel,” she murmured.

“But for this one day!” he repeated. “And our force is small, and God
alone knows where we may be on the morrow. Margot, must it be?”

“Gabriel, it was thou who didst first tell me, when thy heart began to
change toward our church, that to break the promised word was to lie,
and that to lie was deadly sin. Oh, _mon cousin_, dost thou not
remember?”

“I do, I do!” he groaned, passing his hand over his eyes in unbearable
anguish.

“The priest will not harm me,” she went on, “and I shall be with
friends—Louis Herbes and his good wife. They will build them a hut
close beside the water, so that if chance offer they may return to
English soil—dost hearken, Gabriel?”

Gabriel’s face cleared.

“Yes, yes, sweet cousin. I will take a boat—to-morrow—toward the
sunsetting—remember.”

“It is well. But, Gabriel, go. See the lambs—they come.”

“I fear them not,” he cried, the warrior spirit awake in an instant;
“let them come. Have I not baffled them already many times? I would bear
thee through a host of them, my Margot.”

“Go, I beseech thee!” she implored, a prayer in her eyes.

“God keep thee in his holy keeping then, until we meet again,” and
seizing her in his arms he pressed his lips to her brow, and was gone,
followed by Jean Jacques.


                               CHAPTER V

In that hurried meeting and parting Margot had been unable to learn from
Gabriel the history of his life since they had looked upon one another
last. Of his conversion to the Protestant faith she already knew, and of
his sojourn in the fort of Halifax, but of the rest nothing. Most of
all, nothing of his miraculous escape from the treacherous Micmacs
during the voyage from Halifax. Le Loutre, too well acquainted with his
lambs to repose trust in them, and writhing under the knowledge that he
could not bend the white boy to his will, had made use of a well-known
half-breed spy to keep him informed of the doings at the fort. This man
was instructed, should the murderous plot fail or the Micmacs be once
more won over to the English, to offer the savages yet higher bribes, so
that they should at the last moment turn again to France. These higher
bribes of course prevailed, and reinforced by members of their own
tribe, who boarded the vessel under cover of the darkness, the English
crew was overpowered, and all, with one exception, massacred. The
exception, needless to say, was Gabriel. When the priest heard of the
boy’s escape he scarce knew whether to mourn or to rejoice; for, until
he had seen him actually in English uniform, he had still hoped to win
over this choice spirit to his service.

Gabriel, being an expert swimmer, had contrived to make his way to the
shore, and from thence by a toilsome route to the fort. Arrived there,
all hesitation was at an end. Once and forever he threw in his lot with
his father’s race; and chiefly in the hope of rescuing the _gran’-père_
and Margot, but also because his natural bent was to a soldier’s career,
he offered his services to the government. Cornwallis accepted them
gladly, placing him advantageously from the first, and recommending him
strongly to his successor, to make way for whom he shortly after crossed
the ocean. Cornwallis carried with him at best a heavy heart, but it was
in some degree lightened by the gratitude of the many to whom he had
shown kindness.

It is doubtful whether the French government invariably approved of the
lengths to which the zeal of Le Loutre carried him. At all events, the
home ministers occasionally found it advisable to shut their eyes to his
method of interpreting their instructions; which were, in brief, to keep
Acadie at any price, or rather to keep their share of the unhappy
country and take all the rest that was not theirs.

When Jean Jacques told Gabriel of the _gran’-père’s_ death, and of the
privations he and the girl had endured, even the new hope for Margot
could not keep back the tears. For Gabriel had loved and revered the
good old man; therefore he wept and was not ashamed. But doubly
necessary was it now to carry Margot away, though where to bestow her in
the English camp he hardly knew—only he felt sure that a way would be
opened. Major Lawrence was acquainted with his story and would certainly
aid him. Moreover, the smallness of the force caused him to believe that
their stay on the Missaguash would be brief, and once at Halifax, Margot
would find refuge with her country-people assembled there. Perhaps there
too, she might learn to love his faith and be turned wholly from the
Romish Church, and then perhaps—perhaps—who could say?

But Gabriel’s daydreams were rudely dispelled, and the struggle betwixt
love and duty was not yet at an end.

The very next day, when he, with the aid of the faithful Micmac, was
about to carry out his carefully laid scheme, Major Lawrence, having
satisfied himself that his force was too small for the work it would
have to accomplish, gave orders for immediate re-embarkation.

“The fortunes of war, my lad,” he said, with a shrug, and gave the
matter no further thought; for Lawrence was made of very different stuff
from Cornwallis, as the Acadians were to discover when he became
governor of the province soon after. Not by nature a patient man, such
patience as he had acquired soon vanished when appointed to direct a
people who, it must be confessed, were not without trying
characteristics. Already he marveled at the leniency of Cornwallis. To
plead with Lawrence for a few hours grace, therefore, Gabriel knew to be
unavailing; probably it would have been so with Cornwallis also, for
after all “discipline must be maintained.” But at least the governor
would have shown some sympathy. There came a moment when the young
soldier was inclined to rebel, then duty triumphed, and he had learned
his hardest lesson in self-restraint, which if a man fails to learn he
becomes little better than a castaway. So duty and honor prevailed, and
Gabriel confided his cousin to the care of Jean Jacques for as long a
time as the Protestant convert dared to remain in that dangerous
neighborhood; thereafter, if possible, the Indian was to convey the girl
to the fort at Halifax, where were gathered many of her countrymen.
Nevertheless, Gabriel leaned with straining eyes and an almost breaking
heart over the bulwarks of the vessel that bore him rapidly away from
all he loved best on earth, his only consolation being that he was
keeping faith and doing his duty, and that the God of love and faith
would not forsake either him or Margot.

And, indeed, he was to be yet further tried. Upon his arrival at Halifax
he found great changes. Cornwallis had departed, and his place was
already taken by Hopson, his immediate successor. In the excitement of
new arrangements, heightened by the information that the French were
invading the colonies, the recruit was suddenly plunged into another
existence. By the special recommendation of the late governor he was
attached to a lately arrived regiment marching south, and thereupon his
boyhood’s dreams of escaping from the dull Acadian round, and of making
himself of some account in the world, began to show signs of future
fulfillment. Courage, fidelity, and intelligence, were virtues then as
now sure to make their mark. The day came when the young soldier served
under Washington himself, sharing with him the failure that made the
fourth of July, 1754, the darkest day, perhaps, of his whole eventful
life. But Gabriel’s relations with the Father of his country belong to a
part of his career with which Acadie had nothing to do, and which
therefore does not belong to this story. For him the long separation was
in truth less hard than for the girl. He at least could drown the
torturing sense of powerlessness to aid her in constant activity, and in
a succession of duties and dangers; and the hours of his saddest thought
were often interrupted by some stirring call to arms.

Far other was poor Margot’s lot. Hers was that of endurance—the hardest
of all.

The day of her parting from Gabriel went heavily by; and when in the
waning afternoon she crouched in the long marsh grass while the tide
fell lower and lower and still no craft appeared upon the waters, she
wrung her hands in helpless anguish, knowing that in two short hours
neither boat nor canoe could pass up or down the river; for of the
Missaguash nothing would remain but deep red mud. Yet Gabriel came not,
and the precious minutes flew.

The Herbes and herself, pressing far into the woods in the hope of
returning ere long to peaceful English soil, had missed the weighing of
the anchor at early dawn and the skimming seaward of the white-winged
ship bearing Margot’s fondest hope with it. So the girl crouched in the
grass and waited, while the wife of Louis built a fire upon the firmer
land and cooked from their scanty store of provisions.

Then at last, breasting the falling tide, a canoe came creeping up the
Missaguash; and though it came not down, as it should have done from the
English camp, Margot rose to her feet, and shading her eyes from the
westering sun, watched it with beating heart and a prayer on her lips.
Nearer and nearer—but that was no bright head bending over the paddle,
but a dark and swarthy one—the head of an Indian; and it was Jean
Jacques who presently grounded his little vessel, and slipped through
the long grass toward Margot, who was waiting sick at heart. The Micmac
spoke first.

“Maiden,” he said, “Wild Deer has sailed toward the setting of the sun.
The braves of his nation commanded and it was for Wild Deer to obey. But
the Micmac has found for thee a shelter until the youth comes again. Let
us go quickly, ere the river too follow the sun.”

Bitter indeed was the disappointment, but Margot faced it bravely. After
all, though their fashion of faith was no longer the same, were not she
and Gabriel both in the hands of the one God?

“I will go with thee, Jean Jacques,” she said, after a moment’s struggle
with her grief; “but Louis and Marie, they too desire to go. Whither do
we follow thee?”

The Indian pointed down the Missaguash, where upon the opposite shore,
removed from the burned settlement some two or three miles and concealed
from it by a bend in the river, pleasant farmhouses and cultivated acres
brooded in the hush of evening.

“And those good people will receive me?”

The Indian nodded.

“And I can work,” she added eagerly. “I can work well, Jean Jacques.”

It was true. The slender, dark-eyed maiden, though of a frailer build
than the majority of Acadian women, possessed the ambition they so often
lacked.

“Come, then,” urged Jean Jacques. “The white man and his squaw they must
wait. The waters of the Missaguash droop in their bed.”

“Wilt thou come for the white man and his wife at the rising of the
tide?”

The Indian grunted in acquiescence.

“And thou, Jean Jacques, whither wilt thou go?”

He pointed southward.

“Ah, to the new fort! There thou wilt be safe.”

“And thither am I to bear thee, maiden, when the trail is safe for
thee.”

“It is well. And now, wait but the flashing of an arrow,” cried the
girl, and was gone.

Then, as Jean Jacques squatted in the marsh grass, there was borne to
him a sound which caused him to fall prone upon his stomach and crawl as
the snake crawls toward the woods. For the sound was the cry of the
paleface maiden, and had not Wild Deer delivered her into the faithful
keeping of the Micmac?

Now it was not sweet to the heart of Jean Jacques to turn his hand
against those of his own tribe, well as he knew that the lambs of Le
Loutre, with whom he had before his conversion, slain and pillaged many
a time, were in disposition rather birds of prey than lambs.

On the edge of the marsh he paused, lifting his head and gazing. To see
was to act. With the swift and silent motion of the true Indian the
arrow was on the string, and in a moment more buried in the heart of the
feathered brave with whom Margot was struggling. In the background knelt
a woman, clasping a crucifix to her bosom; beside her the prostrate form
of a white man—Louis Herbes and Marie, his wife.

As Jean Jacques sprang forward Marie screamed again, whilst Margot
uttered a cry of joy.

“Jean Jacques! It is our good Jean Jacques! Hasten, Marie! We will lift
Louis, and bear him to the river. He is but wounded, he is not dead.”

With the taciturnity of his race at a crisis Jean Jacques spoke not.
Wiser than Margot, he knew that the Micmacs never hunted singly, and
that if their coveted prey reached the river in safety—well, the
attempt could at least be made. As for the wounded man, he also knew
that, though enjoined by Le Loutre to do the Acadians no injury, the
lambs constantly employed means more in keeping with their savage
natures than persuasion.

Motioning to the women to take the feet of Louis, who was unconscious,
he raised him by the shoulders, and the small party began a hurried
retreat through the marsh grass. Instinctively they all stooped as they
walked, and well it was for them that they did so, for more than one
arrow whistled over their heads.

“The brave is now alone,” grunted Jean Jacques in tones of satisfaction.
“Alone he fears Jean Jacques.”

Margot, panting and breathless, made no reply, but she rejoiced, knowing
that the Indian spoke truth. So doughty a warrior as he would not be
attacked single-handed.

The canoe was already stranded by the falling tide, and the red mud was
over ankle deep. Plunging into it, Jean Jacques, ably assisted by the
strong, thick-set Acadian Marie, laid Louis in the canoe, and all three
proceeded to push it toward the sluggish, ever-narrowing river.

“God and the Holy Mother be praised,” ejaculated Marie, as impelled by
the paddle of the Indian the little vessel glided at last down the
stream.

The words had scarcely left her lips when the air at her ear was cut by
an arrow, which swept on to bury itself in the back of Jean Jacques.

The women uttered an exclamation of dismay, but the Indian, though his
swarthy face went ashen gray, said not a word; only when Marie would
have extricated the arrow, muttered, “Touch it not.”

Fortunately there was a spare paddle in the canoe, and both women in
turn put their whole strength into the work, so that aided by the tide
they made rapid progress. And well that so it was, for as the canoe bore
up against a green promontory, upon which houses and groups of people
were visible, Jean Jacques fell forward on his face, the life-blood
gushing from his nose and mouth. Willing arms lifted him and laid him
upon the green turf, for the habitans had for some time been anxiously
watching the approaching canoe, and were ready with their aid. But
Margot’s first and only thought was for the faithful Micmac. Carefully
as the arrow was withdrawn, the shock was too great; and as the girl
bent weeping over him, it was but glazing eyes he raised to hers.

“Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.”

Then he fell back upon her arm and spoke no more.

Faithful unto death, indeed, was this poor Indian. And, heretic though
he was, they laid him in consecrated earth, blessed by one of the
priests who, French assertions to the contrary notwithstanding, were
always permitted to minister to their flocks upon English soil, unless
detected in acts of treachery.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: “‘Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.’”]

So for a time poor, little, hunted Margot found peace and a refuge with
her country people, but only for a time. When in a few months news of
Lawrence’s return with a larger force reached the ears of Le Loutre he
sent forth his Micmacs to destroy the cluster of homes yet remaining on
the English side of the water. The Acadians, caring not much for
fighting any one, refused to obey his mandate and take arms against the
redcoats, so fled in helpless terror, some to Halifax and Annapolis, but
the larger number across the Missaguash. Whether Le Loutre honestly
desired to found a settlement in this locality, or merely desired to
vent his hatred for the English, cannot be rightly known; at all events
his calculations were at fault regarding a new settlement. The French
shore was already crowded, and if he really entertained hopes of filling
up the marsh and turning it into fertile land for the benefit of the
refugees, these hopes were defeated by the corrupt practices of his own
government, which cared not at all for the welfare of the unhappy
Acadians, but used them merely as tools. Half clothed and half starved,
the men were at once put to hard, labor, with scanty or no remuneration.
The strong new fort of Beauséjour, built in opposition to the less
imposing one of Fort St. Lawrence, was the handiwork of Acadian
refugees. Even then they might not have fared so ill had the supplies
actually sent by the French government ever reached their rightful
destination, but this was far from being the case. Official corruption,
bad as it was throughout New France, was worse, probably, at Beauséjour
than elsewhere. One of the most incompetent and unworthy of the numerous
“office seekers,” to use a modern term, was in command there, and the
“spoils system” was at its height upon the shores of the Missaguash.
Vergor, the commandant, applied but a small portion of the food and
clothing to the uses for which they were intended, and sent the large
remainder back to Quebec, or to Louisbourg, where his confederates sold
them, greatly to his and their profit, but not at all to that of the
poor Acadians.

Terrified at Le Loutre, Vergor, the Micmacs, and French soldiers, not
naturally loving the foreign race across the water, yet craving peaceful
homes with them, the refugees dragged on a miserable existence, finding
themselves becoming daily more of a burden to their countrymen in the
settlements about Chipody. At length they resolved to inquire secretly
of the English whether they would be allowed to return to their homes,
could they make their escape? The answer was that they could return if
they renewed the oath of fealty to the English crown, the oath they had
so often broken in their weakness and vacillation. They would not be
required by English law to bear arms, but if on the contrary they were
found fighting for, or aiding the French, they would be dealt with as
traitors. Among those who joined in this request were Margot’s
guardians, the Herbes, also the family with whom the fugitives had found
shelter on the south bank of the Missaguash close to the Pont-à-Buot.

Furious, indeed, was the anger of the _abbé_ when he heard of the
backsliding of his people. His ravings were rather those of a lunatic
than of an anointed priest, as he flung himself hither and thither in
the pulpit, calling down the wrath of God upon his recreant flock. And
Le Loutre was a man who never stopped at mere words. So one night two
things happened; one, however, which had nothing to do with him.

The people for whom Margot worked in return for bare sustenance were not
unkind, but they found Louis and Marie of more service to them, being
stronger and stouter, and little Margot, in losing heart and hope, was
losing physical strength too. That night, as she crossed the meadows
behind the home-going cows, she was very sad. Slowly, very slowly, her
faith in the church of her fathers was being dragged up by the roots,
and the fury of the _abbé_, his cruel words in the sacred building a few
hours since, had uprooted it yet more. Yet she had no other spiritual
guide but him—none to direct her in new, untrodden ways. Gabriel, who
could have helped her, was far away. M. Girard she had not seen since
the burning of Beaubassin, and she feared that the good old man was in
trouble. It was working and waiting in the dark for Margot.

As she neared the marsh a sound struck on her ear.

“Tst!”

She glanced around fearfully, and her eyes fell on the head of an
Indian, stealthily upreared.

Terror of the Micmacs amounted to an inborn instinct among the Acadians,
and common sense alone intervened to stay Margot’s flying feet. Perhaps
the man had some message for her, a message from him who was ever in her
thoughts. She paused, therefore, with as fair a show of courage as she
could muster.

“Be not afraid, maiden,” said the Indian in broken French. “Come nearer.
Bent Bow carries a message for thee from one whom Jean Jacques called
‘Wild Deer.’”

Margot’s eyes brightened, and oblivious of fear she approached the
Indian, who she now perceived was no Micmac. He held toward her a little
billet which she eagerly took. Now the good _curé_ at Annapolis, at
Gabriel’s earnest entreaty, had taught the cousins to read and write,
and never was Margot more thankful than at this moment for the blessed
privilege, though she had often times found the lesson hour a toilsome
one.

“Ah!” she cried. “I have nothing to give thee, Bent Bow, to reward thy
faithfulness. The poor Acadians have not so much as a handful of beads.”

“It is enough that I bring thee the billet,” replied the Indian, “and
that I serve Wild Deer. Together, many moons from here, we drove before
us the foreign devils, and there came a night on which the paleface
youth saved the life of the Indian brave.”

“Wilt thou see him again?” cried the girl eagerly.

Bent Bow shook his head, and with a sign of farewell began to crawl away
through the marsh grass.

“Is it well with Wild Deer?” she called after him.

“It is well.” And she saw the messenger no more. Still walking behind
the cows, she read the precious letter:

    MA COUSINE: Would that I knew it was as well with thee as it is
    with me. But, alas! this I cannot know. Yet Jean Jacques is
    faithful, and he has vowed to care for my pearl of price. Long
    ere this he will have told thee why I failed to meet thee.
    Margot, I have for leader one of the noblest young men God ever
    created. It was a happy day for me when, through my father’s
    name, I was appointed to serve under such an one. Sad it is that
    a soldier’s life takes me far from thee, but I shall come again,
    sweet cousin, to find thee safe and sheltered beside the
    Missaguash, far from the cruel priest. The family to whom Jean
    Jacques was to carry thee are known by me, and will protect and
    cherish thee.

“Ah, Gabriel,” said Margot to herself, the tears upon her cheeks, “well
is it that so much is hid from thee.”

    For I am coming back. Little is said, but Washington himself
    thinks that some great move is to be made, and that the men of
    New England are gathering, and that the governor of
    Massachusetts and the governor of our poor distraught country
    are planning alike against the French. Then I and others who
    came southward with me will return. Till then, _ma cherie, mon
    amie_, adieu. In English, though I have grown to like my
    father’s tongue, methinks these words are not so sweet.

                                                          GABRIEL.

And all the way along the meadows her heart sang, “He is coming back.”

But at home a scene of confusion and distress awaited her.

Le Loutre, not content with thunders from the pulpit, had been making a
house to house visitation of those whom he considered the most
rebellious members his flock. Among these were classed Louis Herbes and
his host, François Marin. Banishment to Isle St. Jean, where many exiled
Acadians were already in a fair way to starve, was the priest’s usual
punishment; and should any man refuse to obey, refusal was met by a
threat to permit the Micmacs to carry off, and possibly kill, his wife
and children. A yet worse fate than banishment awaited Herbes and Marin.

That morning in the church Le Loutre had assured the signers of the two
documents of appeal—to the French and to the English governments—that
if they did not take their names from both papers they should “have
neither sacraments in this life nor heaven in the next.” What could the
poor, hunted Acadians do but obey? And even with obedience came
banishment for many. As for Herbes and Marin, they were given the
grievous permission to proceed to Quebec as deputies on behalf of the
Acadians who desired to return to the English side of the river.
Grievous permission, indeed! For even slow-witted Acadians were bright
enough to understand that the _abbé_ would prepare the way before them
in such a manner as to make their mission not only useless, but
terrifying. And truly they were correct in their anticipations, for
after the visit Duquesne, the governor, wrote Le Loutre as follows:

“I think that the two rascals of deputies whom you sent me will not soon
recover from the fright I gave them.”

Such was the heartlessness with which this unhappy race was treated.


                               CHAPTER VI

The last sad scenes in the sad story of the Acadians in Acadie are now
drawing near. Possibly had those two patient gentlemen, Cornwallis and
Hopson, continued in command of the country, such scenes might never
have come to pass, or at least might have been long delayed. But, as we
know, Governor Lawrence was soon worn out by what he described as “the
obstinacy, treachery, and ingratitude” of the Acadians, and he and
Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts, determined to settle this
troublesome affair once and for all. The two governors knew, moreover,
that the French were merely waiting for a good excuse to attack the
English, whose defenses in Acadie were of the feeblest, and that if they
hoped to be successful they themselves must strike the first blow.

The result of their decision was an act which has been well described as
being “too harsh and indiscriminate to be wholly justified,” but which
is explained by the fact that the Acadians “while calling themselves
neutrals, were an enemy encamped in the heart of the province.”[1]

-----

[1] “Montcalm and Wolfe.” Francis Parkman.

The first step was to lay siege to Beauséjour; and to the aid of the
regulars flocked volunteers under the command of that warlike farmer,
John Winslow. These men enrolled themselves under the orders of General
Monckton, having responded to the call of the New England governor.

It was the afternoon of a June day when the two deputies wearied, cowed,
and helpless returned home. Their passage through the settlements had
been greatly delayed by the questions showered upon them by anxious
habitans, and it was late ere they arrived. Then again the tale of
failure had to be told, and listened to with tears and lamentations.

“If the Acadians are miserable, remember that the priests are the cause
of it,” wrote a French officer to a French missionary.

News had quite recently come to Chipody, the adjacent settlement, that
many of the Acadians banished by Le Loutre to Isle St. Jean had found
their way to Halifax, had taken the oath of allegiance to the British,
were reinstated in their former homes, and were being provided
temporarily with supplies by the English government. Yet it was not love
for the English that had drawn them back again—simply the love of home
and peace. The returned deputies had scarcely finished their tale when
the women began to try and persuade them to remove to Halifax,
immediately if possible.

Margot alone neither wept nor argued. There was a hope within her breast
that would not die, a hope aroused by Gabriel’s letter. She stole away
from the clatter of tongues down to the edge of the marsh-grass. The sun
was near its setting, as it had been when she had waited in vain for
Gabriel so long, so very long, as it seemed to her, ago. Where was he
now? When would he—— Then suddenly her heart stood still, to beat
again with mingled dread and expectation.

[Illustration: “Far away, at the mouth of the inlet . . . lay three small
  ships.”]

Far away, at the mouth of the inlet, where it broadens into Chignecto
Bay, lay three small ships, English beyond a doubt.

For a minute Margot lingered, giving herself up to speculation. Then
like a bird she flew back to one of the rude and simple dwellings of the
kind which even in happier days fulfilled the frugal Acadian’s highest
idea of home. Flinging open the door without ceremony she cried,
“English ships in the bay!” and sped upon her homeward course.

Herbes and Marin and their wives were still planning and discussing, but
the words on their lips were checked by Margot’s breathless ejaculation.
In silence they gazed at one another, with the characteristic slowness
of their race. What was now to be done?

Margot, whose mind moved more swiftly than those of most of her
country-people, soon spoke again, with as much impatience as the habit
of respect for her elders permitted.

“What shall we do, you say? Oh, good friends, let us escape to the
English ships, they will help us to Halifax! But oh, quick, quick!”

“You forget, maiden,” said Marin with pompous rebuke. “There is the oath
of allegiance in the way.”

“And what of that?” cried all three women this time. Marie Herbes
continuing:

“What hurt did the oath do us in the past? Did we not till our own land
and gather in our crops unaffrighted and undisturbed?—untaxed too? Did
not our own priests minister to us?”

A crafty gleam crept into the little eyes of Marin.

“Yes,” he said, “and if we broke faith with our rulers for our good or
advancement, why—pfui! What matter!” He shrugged his shoulders and
spread his hands. “A small matter! Let the habitan take the oath anew,
said the governor. But now—now it is otherwise. As we came through the
settlement the new proclamation was made known to us. Should the
French—and verily are they not of our own blood? make fair offers,
such, for instance, that under their rule too, we should live in peace,
and it became the duty of a good habitan to give ear to them, what then?
Then would we be called traitors, and meet the fate of such!”

Marie lifted her eyebrows, and made a little sound of dissension in her
throat.

“It is true,” he persisted doggedly.

“The good friend is in the right,” put in Herbes, speaking for the first
time. “This Governor Lawrence is not as the others, he is not to be
cajoled.”

“But why should we break faith with the English?” It was Margot who
spoke in a low voice. “With the Acadians the French have never yet kept
faith.”

“What knows a young maid of great affairs such as these?” growled Marin;
while his wife added with a taunting laugh:

“But thou must remember, _mon ami_, that the child has an English lover;
what wouldst thou, then?”

The color dyed Margot’s cheek, then fled, leaving her very pale. But she
was, as we know, no moral coward, so she quickly controlled herself, and
replied quietly:

“Pardon, madame, thou hast forgotten that my cousin’s mother was an
Acadian, even as we are, and that he himself was my cousin ere he was my
lover. The country of his birth is dear to him, though whether he be yet
alive I know not, or whether I shall ever see him more.”

Her voice choked, and her dark eyes filled. The good Marie clapped her
briskly on the shoulder crying vehemently:

“Be of a better courage, _mon enfant_! Thou and thy heretic will meet
again, never fear!”

“Sometimes it misgives me that our Margot is already part heretic
herself,” said Louis with a suspicious glare.

“Shame on thee, shame on thee!” protested his wife. “And hast thou so
soon forgotten to be grateful? Could the maiden not have left us that
day on the banks of the Missaguash—you a mere helpless burden hindering
her flight?” Then, while Louis hung his head in abashed silence, she
hastily brought the conversation back to its former subject. It was
finally decided that the whole party should proceed to the house of the
neighbor whom Margot had warned of the arrival of the ships, there to
discuss the advisability of further action. Thus slowly did the minds of
Acadians work. The result was that the commandant at the fort received
no notice of the enemy’s approach until the small hours of the morning.
The attacking force was then at the very doors, and all was confusion
and alarm. Messengers were sent in hot haste to Louisbourg for aid, and
by alternate threats and promises the poor Acadians, who so much
preferred to have their fighting done for them, were forced either to
assist in the defense of the fort, or worse still, oppose the enemy in
the open.

It was a case of English regulars and provincials against French
regulars and Acadians—on the one side the whole heart, on the other but
half a heart; for the French soldiers corrupted by corrupt officials,
were no match either in resolution for the stout New Englanders, or in
discipline for the British troops. The Acadians and Indians sent out of
the fort were as mere puppets in the path of Monckton’s army, and the
second night beheld the invaders safely across the river and encamped
within a mile of Beauséjour.

Herbes and Marin had of course been pressed into the service, but unlike
their neighbors had decided to leave their families in the farmhouse
instead of hiding them in the woods. The crafty Marin declared that the
home was far enough from the scene of the conflict to insure safety, but
in truth he depended far more upon the almost certain hope that Margot’s
English lover would take care that she, therefore they, would not be
molested. By this it may be seen how vague were his notions concerning
army regulations, discipline, and so forth. Depending on this hope,
however, the women and the two half-grown sons of Marin were left
behind, to listen to the distant roar and rattle of the bombardment of
Beauséjour,—for the attack was not long in beginning. The wives told
their beads, weeping and praying for the safety of their husbands, while
Margot, pale and still, and alternating betwixt hope and fear, turned
now consciously in her petitions to the faith of him whom she loved. For
Margot’s nature like that of Gabriel, was clear and straightforward; and
now that the forms of the Catholic religion were getting to mean little
to her, she faced the knowledge bravely, dropping these forms one by
one, striving to wait patiently until light and help should come; and
this lonely waiting amounted to heroism in a timid Acadian maid. But the
length of the loneliness, the yearning for counsel and support, was
forming the girl’s character, and ripening it as the seed ripens within
the pod. It was Margot, the woman, who now awaited the return of
Gabriel, and such a woman as she might never have become had she led the
effortless, unaspiring existence of the average Acadian peasant, without
mental struggle or any higher object than that of living from day to
day.

News of the siege came but fitfully to the three women, bereft as they
were of neighbors and the usual neighborly gossip; for the inhabitants
of the scattered houses, or rather huts, within reach had all fled to
the shelter of the woods. Now and then some head of a family, wearied of
what seemed to him profitless combat, having succeeded in eluding the
unwelcome task, paused at the farmhouse to drink a cup of milk on his
way to rejoin wife and babes, and shake his head over the news he
brought; or a fugitive Indian, prowling along the river’s bank, bade the
paleface squaws make ready for flight, declaring that the great
medicine-man could not much longer induce the braves to hold the fort
against the foe. But secure in their simple faith that Marin would
contrive to see Gabriel, and that Gabriel would protect them, the women
refused to face the perils of the forest.

The day was the sixteenth of June. For several days they had heard
nothing, and growing hourly more anxious, the three would once and again
drop their household tasks, and stepping one by one to the door, call to
the boys perched upon the tall trees to know if aught might be seen or
heard. When at last a shout went up, it chanced that all the women were
in the house. As they ran out into the open, young François cried:

“They come, they come! a host of them!”

“Who come?” inquired his mother impatiently. “Speak, boy!”

“I cannot yet tell, _ma mère_; but yes, yes!”

And little Jules took up the cry:

“Yes, yes! It is our own dear Acadians. And they laugh, they are glad,
they carry bundles and shout!”

“And see the _bon père_, Jules; he waves his cap, he espies us!”

And sliding down the tree, François was off and away, deaf to his
mother’s calls and commands, followed as promptly as the shortness of
his legs would permit by his little brother.

What did it all mean? The three women left behind looked into one
another’s eyes, with the unspoken query on their lips. Then, with an air
of determination, the wife of Marin threw her homespun apron over her
head and went after her sons. Marie Herbes dropped upon the rude bench
before the door, and began rapidly telling her beads, tapping her foot
upon the ground meanwhile in an agony of impatience and anxiety.

And Margot? For the lonely girl how much was now at stake! Leaning
against the wall of the house, her hands idle for the reason that she no
longer owned beads to tell, her dark lashes resting on her pale cheeks,
and a prayer in her heart for resignation if the worst was to be, she
waited.

Then it was that for the first time she fully understood that she was
ever hoping and praying for the success of the alien race; that she had
ceased merely to tolerate them for the sake of the peace they gave, but
that she had in very truth gone over,—as a few others of her race had
done, and were doing,—heart and soul to the enemy.

Undoubtedly the siege of Beauséjour was at an end; the question
trembling on the lips of the waiting women was, In whose hands was the
victory? For peaceful Acadians, released from the perils and toils of
war, would for the moment rejoice in either victory or defeat; both
would sound alike to them.

Without, the sun burned more and more hotly. Within, the soup in the
iron pot, hung above the crackling sticks, boiled—presently boiled
over. None heeded.

Half an hour dragged by, the minutes ticking slowly along in the old
clock in the corner. Then Marie sprang to her feet.

“They come!” she cried.

Verily they came—a strange spectacle. Out of the woods and across the
bridge poured a little horde of Acadians—all Acadians, Margot saw in
one swift glance, many of them excited by the red French wine, but every
man of them singing and shouting, as they tramped along laden with what
was evidently plunder from the fort.

“Beauséjour has fallen—has fallen!”

Thus they sang, as if exulting in the defeat of an enemy.

The wife of Marin, almost as wild as the men, had loaded herself down
with part of her husband’s burden, and her voice rang shrill above the
tumult in response to Marie’s vociferous queries:

“Beauséjour has fallen, I tell thee. And the English have pardoned our
men because they said they but fought under compulsion. All is well.”

“But whence came this, and this?” persisted the more practical Marie,
pointing to the motley collection of food, wearing apparel, wines, and
even furniture, with which the ground was now littered.

Questions for long brought no coherent reply, and it was not until late
in the afternoon, their comrades having scattered in search of their
respective families, that either Herbes or Marin was able to give a
clear account of all that had happened.

It was significant of the religious dependence and docility of the
Acadian nature that one of the first questions asked and answered should
be concerning the fate of Le Loutre. At the query the two men, who since
their vain trip to Quebec had wavered somewhat in their allegiance to
the tyrannical _abbé_, shrugged their shoulders and spread their hands
as those who knew nothing.

“But, Louis,” Marie cried, “it is important that we know, for without
him are we not but lost sheep in the wilderness?”

“As to that, good wife, I cannot tell thee,” answered Louis. “When we
left that villainous fort _M. l’Abbé_ was nowhere to be seen. Depend on
it, he was with the commandant. All was hurry and confusion from the
moment the shell fell upon the officers’ table while they sat at meat,
killing six of them, yes, six!” Here he crossed himself, shuddering, and
Marin took up the tale:

“Yes, and the _bon Dieu_ alone knows how great was the wonder of the
English, who expected to fight many more days, when the white flag flew
from the ramparts. _M. l’Abbé_ I beheld everywhere then. He ran from one
to the other, pleading that the flag of the coward, for so our brave
_abbé_ called it, be taken in. Well, we Acadians know that he hath the
gift of speech, but now it was in vain. The French were glad to cease
this foolish killing of men for naught, glad even as we were. So
presently it was arranged that they should march out with the honors of
war,—whatever honor there be in slaying and quarreling,—and proceed at
once to Louisbourg. Then the officers fell to drinking and plundering
ere they departed, and we gathered up what little we could lay hands on,
and so took leave with our pardon. Of the priest I saw no more. That is
all that has happened.”

Margot, who during this recital had been leaning forward with clasped
hands, at last ventured timidly, addressing Louis Herbes:

“And _mon cousin_; of him you saw nothing?”

“No, little one,” replied Louis kindly; “but, I learned that one
Gabriel, with another name that cracks the jaws even to think of, was
much spoken of during the attack by reason of his valor, and that he
fought well. Rather he than I,” he concluded with a grimace.

Margot fell back and said no more. She had all for which she had dared
to hope; again she must wait, it was true, but this time not wholly
uncheered.

The sun sank and the moon rose and the wearied household was wrapped in
slumber, all but Margot, who leaned from the window of the shedroom she
occupied apart from the common sleeping apartment, which according to
Acadian custom also served for a kitchen. She had tried to sleep and had
failed.

Secure in the pardon granted them by the English, heedless of the
future, the Acadians were once more collected under their own rooftrees,
and as Margot’s eyes roamed along the banks of the Missaguash they
rested with a sense of sympathetic peace upon the little farmhouses
containing so many re-united families.

Yet it was strange how constantly on this night of apparent peace her
mind reverted to the relentless priest who had caused herself and others
so much misery. Involuntarily her mind strayed backward to the days when
they had all hung on every glance of that strong, imperious man, whose
word was law to a weak and vacillating people, and who represented to
the simple villagers salvation here and hereafter. Now, in his hour of
defeat, how would it be? His influence had already waned, she thought.

Her window was raised only a few feet from the ground and, unseen by
her, a figure came gliding along in the shadow of the wide eaves.
Another moment and her quick ear had caught the sound of hushed steps,
but before the flashing thought had had time to concentrate in the cry,
“Gabriel!” a grasp of iron was laid upon her shoulder and a hand crushed
down upon her mouth.

There was a hideous interval before a word was spoken, after her
terrified eyes had taken in the fact that she was in the clutches of one
of the dreaded Micmacs. Then, was it with increased horror or with
relief that she recognized the voice which at last spoke?

“Margot! maiden!” The whisper was harsh. “It is thy priest and father in
God who commands thy service.”

The shock temporarily deprived the girl of power to reply, but finding
that she made neither struggle nor outcry, Le Loutre, for it was indeed
he, released her.

This man was her enemy, so ran her swift thought; he had robbed her of
all that made life dear.

Now Margot, though gentle in heart and deed, was human and intolerant,
as the young usually are. Forgiveness of cruel wrong could only come
through prayer and striving. She remembered the destroyed and abandoned
home, made desolate by this man; the beloved _gran’-père_, dead from
exposure and want; the beloved cousin, an outcast and a wanderer; and it
was this man who had done it.

Yes, she guessed what the priest wanted. He was a hunted fugitive. But
why did he come to her, whom he had so greatly wronged?

Then she remembered also the words Gabriel had once read to her from an
ancient printed page treasured by his mother as having been the property
of his father: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that
trespass against us.”

She was so long silent that the voice of Le Loutre had in it a quaver of
apprehension when he again addressed her, and when she looked up and
saw, even in the moonlight, how almost craven were the glances the once
arrogant priest cast over his shoulder into the dim, wide-stretching
woods, compassion as well as higher emotions was aroused, and her
resolve taken.

“_M. l’Abbé_,” she said simply, “there are none here who would harm
their priest, even should they awake. As for me, I will do what I can,
and God will teach me to forgive you.”

At the sound of such words from one of the least of his flock, the
priest’s imperious temper sprang to his lips. But the situation was too
perilous for anger.

None here who would harm him? He was not over sure of that. The men, did
not they both believe he had harmed them? Yet all that he had done had
been for their souls’ good. And of a surety he knew his dear Acadians,
who for the sake of peace and freedom from alarms would hesitate, even
though the life of the guardian of those souls were at stake. But this
maiden, with her it was otherwise. True, she was half-heretic, but she
was made of sterner stuff than most of her compatriots. Her he felt sure
that he might trust.

Minds work quickly in hours of danger, and it was but a minute before he
replied:

“I will pray for the salvation of thy soul, maiden, if yet it may be
won. But now,” his voice in spite of him trembling with anxiety, “where
wilt thou conceal me until such time as my trusty Cope arrives to go
with me to Baye-Verte? There tarries my brother in God, Manach, and
together we seek safety at Quebec.”

At the name of Jean Baptiste Cope, the Micmac at whose hands Gabriel had
endured so much, Margot’s heart contracted with something like hatred.
There was a short, sharp struggle within her. This, then, was what
forgiving your enemies meant? Oh, it was hard, hard! And this priest and
this Indian had injured so many, was it right to help them to escape?

Little did she guess the thoughts pouring forth from the _abbé’s_
fertile imagination as he watched her—new thoughts, new ideas. Anxiety
for the maiden’s soul, he would have said, was the mainspring of his
intended actions, the desire to make one final effort to save her from
perdition. Like many another too sure of his own holiness, the taint of
personal malice, personal revenge, ran like a dark and dirty thread
through the whiteness of his own soul’s garment. Le Loutre was as honest
with himself as he was able to be, and certainly his fanaticism was real
and true.

Yet he judged Gabriel entirely by himself, by his own capacity for
righteous (?) hatred: Gabriel was at the head of the party searching for
him betwixt Beauséjour and Baye-Verte, and it was for this reason that
he had made a wide détour, appointing the meeting with his factotum,
Cope, at a house where dwelt one who could be depended upon not to
betray him. Her influence over the young heretic, he believed, could
also be depended upon, should the fugitives be intercepted by him in
their flight. Honor, loyalty to duty, counted for nothing in the
estimation of the religious fanatic.

“It is for her soul’s salvation,” he repeated to himself with pious
emphasis. From the woods near by floated the quavering cry of a night
owl.

“Await me here, Margot,” exclaimed the priest authoritatively, and
stepping backward was lost in the shadows.

Force of habit was strong, and still leaning from the window she
instinctively obeyed.

A few minutes elapsed, and then the terrifying Indian, who no longer had
terrors for her, re-appeared.

But this time no words passed. A brawny arm seized her by the waist,
while at the same time a cloth was pushed into her mouth. Unable to
utter a sound, she was dragged from the window, and borne away.


                              CHAPTER VII

When Gabriel, two or three days later, rode up to rejoin Monckton’s
command under the walls of Beauséjour, his heart—despite his failure to
capture the fugitive priest—beat high with joyful anticipation, for
Monckton had promised that upon his return he should be given a few
hours to visit his cousin and assure himself that all was indeed well
with her. The general himself was subject to the orders of Governor
Shirley, and Gabriel had come to him with a letter of recommendation
from George Washington. Washington, himself a Virginian, rightly guessed
that the young soldier, of English birth and bound to Virginia by ties
of blood and sympathy, would not harmonize comfortably with the New
England Puritans under Winslow.

“The maiden were best at Halifax,” had been Monckton’s comment on
hearing Gabriel’s briefly told tale. “There abide many of her people.”

Best! Yes, how far best! But wishes were vain.

The general, when Gabriel arrived in camp, was busy in his tent, and
merely waved his hand hurriedly as the young man saluted and began to
make his report.

“I know, I know!” he exclaimed. “The rascally priest has slipped through
our fingers, disguised as one of his infernal Micmacs, I understand.
Well, the country is well rid of him. I shall soon have other work for
you.”

Chancing to glance up, something in his lieutenant’s face struck
him—something in the tense eagerness of the fine, soldierly figure.

“Speak,” he said kindly, “what is it?”

Then suddenly he remembered, and a smile illumined his anxious, rather
worn face, while that of Gabriel flushed in response.

“Ah, I bethink me. Well, rest and eat, and then go to the house on the
Missaguash where dwells the cousin. Ere long I will have less pleasant
work for you.”

The color ebbed from Gabriel’s face. He longed to inquire further; to
ask if the rumor were true that in consequence of persistent refusal to
take the oath of allegiance the Acadians were to be expelled from
English soil, from the places of refuge still left them by the French
after forcing them from their former homes. Poor, unhappy people; driven
like sheep before the wolves! But discipline forbade anything but prompt
and silent obedience. And, as an hour or two later, he swung at a gallop
toward the home of Herbes and Marin, of whose precise locality he had
been informed by a friendly Acadian, his high hopes of the morning were
tinged with gloomy forebodings.

One by one the French forts were falling into English hands, and in a
few days Acadia would once more be an English province. Already the land
over which he rode—called the Chignecto district—belonged no more to
France.

Across the bridge he thundered, and there in the midst of the meadows
stood the rough cabin and outlying sheds inhabited by those he sought.
Faster and faster flew the horse, conscious of his rider’s impatience,
and Marin, lolling on a bench before the door, arose in mingled alarm
and curiosity. To the women and children, crowding to the front at the
sound of galloping hoofs, the young soldier was a splendid apparition as
he sprang from his excited steed and greeted them bareheaded, the glory
of the May sun in his ruffled blonde curls, and his eyes shining blue as
the waters of far Chignecto Bay.

Then of a sudden knowledge came to Marie.

“Ah, the cousin!” she ejaculated; and then could say no more. How could
she tell him?

“Yes,” he cried, “I am Gabriel. Where is Margot?”

“Ah, _la pauvre petite_! Who knows?”

And the kind-hearted woman threw her apron over her head and burst into
loud sobs, in which she was joined by Julie, the wife of Marin.

Frantic as he was with anxiety, Gabriel could extract nothing coherent
from either the women or Marin, the latter a stupid fellow at best, with
just enough brains to be suspicious and obstinate; but fortunately Louis
Herbes arrived on the scene, and from him the sad tale was forthcoming.

“Nevertheless he was no Indian,” concluded Louis shrewdly, glancing over
his shoulder and speaking in a whisper; “it was _M. l’Abbé_ himself.”

“How knowest thou that?” growled Marin.

“I do know it,” asserted Herbes with quiet confidence. “There were some
who also knew and told. I have spoken aloud and sorely of the loss of
our Margot.”

“Yes, _bon ami_,” sneered Marin. “Now tell it all. Give _le bon prêtre_
into the hands of the heretics.”

“Whom I may trust, that also I know,” exclaimed Louis vehemently,
turning upon his friend. . . Then more calmly, “No matter for that. _M.
l’Abbé_ is out of Acadie ere now, and we, say I, are well rid of him.
Only grief and trouble did he bring us.”

He glanced around defiantly, but the little group remained passive.
Gabriel stood apart, his face hidden in his horse’s mane. At length he
spoke:

“And thou knowest no more, good Louis? Thou hast no clue?”

“This only: that from Baye-Verte _M. l’Abbé_, and his brother priest
made sail for Quebec, and it was said that he would leave our Margot at
Isle St. Jean, where is a goodly colony of our people, driven out of
Acadie long since and living miserably.”

Gabriel groaned. Julie stepped forward and laid a kindly hand upon his
shoulder.

“Better that than the Indians,” she exclaimed in the sanguine tones
habitual to her. “And something tells me that _la petite_ escaped. Who
knows? She may have made her way to Halifax.”

“Impossible!” returned Gabriel sadly. “All alone, those many leagues?”

“But,” put in Herbes confidently, “there was a party of our country
people landed at Baye-Verte from that melancholy isle, on their way to
Halifax to take the oath of allegiance. One party had already done so,
with the result that they were reinstated in their old homes and
furnished by the heretic English with provisions for the winter. This
second party looked for the same indulgence, if not too late. Who knows?
the maiden may have joined them. One coming hither from Baye-Verte vowed
that he saw her not with the priests.”

“And I?” exclaimed Gabriel, in a sudden burst of anger with himself,
“why did not I capture that man, who over and over again has brought
misery into my own life and the lives of all dear to me? From Beauséjour
to Baye-Verte it is but twelve miles, and meseemed I rode with my
company over every inch of it, yet saw neither priest nor Indian.”

The face of Louis took on a peculiar expression.

“_M. le Capitain_,” he said, “it hath been related of us that we, the
Acadians, love gold. And why not?” shrugging his shoulders and spreading
his hands. “Gold, it is good, and we are poor. _M. l’Abbé_ has gold
always, and so there are those who would hide and help him, even though
he be shorn of his strength. Also, is he not our father in God?” Here
his expression became devout, and he crossed himself. “Also, there are
some who have wearied of his rule—worse, say I, than that of a dozen
kings—and would speed him in his flight.”

But Marie interrupted her husband:

“Yes, Halifax,” she cried, whirling on the two men; “and was it not your
wife, she who knows nothing, and the wife of the good friend, and _la
petite_ herself, women all, who gave you the wise counsel to go to
Halifax while yet there was time, and take the honorable oath of
allegiance, and live in peace in the fair Annapolis meadows, and you
would not? What have the French done for us, I ask thee once more? What
matter the flag? I tell thee once again. Give us peace in the homes of
our fathers.”

And at the thought, Marie wiped the tears of memory from her eyes.

Louis continued silent, and Marin it was that answered with a shrug.

“No need to weep, _bonne femme_! There is yet time. The English are a
dull race. They permit themselves to be deceived once and yet again.”

“But not again,” put in Gabriel sternly. “Look you, Marin, and you too,
friend Herbes, you would have done well to listen to the sage counsel of
your wives, and of the little Margot,” here his voice faltered, “who was
ever wise, and for whose safe keeping so long I owe you all thanks which
may not be measured. Yet I tell you, England’s lion may sleep long, but
he wakes at last; so hath it ever been. Our governors, Cornwallis,
Hopson, were men of large and tender heart; they forgave and forbore.
With this governor it is otherwise; with Governor Shirley is it also
otherwise; these are men who will not forbear; they strike, and they
strike hard. Greatly I fear me that naught will avail you now; yet I
know nothing absolutely.”

He mounted his horse, and held out his hand to the group, all the
brightness gone from his young face. But they clung to him, unwilling to
part from their last hope, beseeching him to intercede for them,
promising that if he succeeded they would start for Halifax at once,
searching constantly for the maiden by the way.

“Alas, good friends!” replied the young man sadly, “I am insignificant.
No word of mine has weight with general or governor, although it is true
that Monckton favors me somewhat. My time, my person, are at the
disposal of my superiors. I cannot even go myself to search for and
rescue the beloved! Even with you, my friends, I have lingered too
long.”

He pressed each hand in turn.

“But you will try, _M. le capitain_?” they cried in chorus.

“I will try. But I am not even a captain!”

He smiled kindly upon them, but in his eyes was a sorrow akin to
despair. Another moment, and the thunder of his horse’s hoofs sounded
upon the bridge.

It was as he foretold. The long years of indulgence were at an end. The
storm so slow in gathering broke at last with the fury of the
long-delayed. Winslow and Monckton, the New England and the British
generals, their tempers ruffled by distasteful duty, were already
inclined to fall out; and Gabriel soon saw that in order to intercede
successfully for his Acadian friends he must bide his time. But the
peremptory orders sent by Governor Lawrence neither general was in a
hurry to carry out; and so it happened that one day Gabriel perceived
his chance and seized it.

“They are friends of yours, you say?” said Monckton, “and cared for the
cousin in her time of need? How came it, then, that they gave her not
better protection now? They tell you she is safe, but how know they? How
know you?”

“Ah, if I did but know!” broke from the young soldier involuntarily.
Then controlling himself, he proceeded: “General, the women of the
household have long striven with the men that they should return to live
under the English flag. Herbes and Marin were among those who signed the
petition to the French and English governments that they should be
allowed to do so, thereby grievously displeasing Le Loutre, so that he
selected these men to go to Quebec as deputies, well knowing the
reception that awaited them there. Thus did he punish them; and my lord
can guess that it was punishment indeed!”

Monckton half smiled; then rubbed his forehead in weariness and
perplexity. Finally he said:

“Well, lieutenant, go! But bid them do quickly that which they desire.
The order has gone forth, and in a day or two at farthest I may spare
none.”

So once more Gabriel flew across the Missaguash, and although he could
hear nothing more of Margot, he at least had the consolation of feeling
that he had saved her benefactors, and that there was always hope she
might be found at Halifax, whither the party started that same night in
their ox-wagons, driving their milch-cows before them.


                              CHAPTER VIII

And now followed bitter days indeed. A merciless guide and shepherd
might Le Loutre have been, but at least in him the helpless flock had
found a leader; he had forsaken them, and like silly sheep they ran
hither and thither, halting more than ever betwixt two opinions. Looking
vainly to the French for assistance, they shilly-shallyed too long with
the oath of allegiance to the English government, and began to reap the
terrible harvest accruing from long years of deceit and paltering with
honor. It has been written that a man may not serve two masters, and too
late the unhappy Acadians realized the truth of these words.

Gabriel gave thanks that it was the New England troops that were sent
out from Beauséjour, re-christened Fort Cumberland, to gather in all the
male Acadians in the vicinity, since but a small proportion had obeyed
the summons to report themselves at the fort. But he rejoiced too soon.
Winslow was soon ordered to the Basin of Mines, and especially requested
that the lieutenant who had distinguished himself during the siege might
accompany him with a few regulars.

The entire Basin of Mines, including the village of Grand Pré, having
been left comparatively undisturbed by Le Loutre and his “lambs,” still
continued to be prosperous Acadian settlements; and it was therefore
upon them that the storm broke most destructively, and it was there,
perhaps, that the saddest scenes in this sad history took place. Yet it
was here too, that the people had benefited most by the lenient English
rule, and had shown themselves most unreliable and treacherous; or, to
speak more accurately, had yielded with the greatest weakness to the
_abbé’s_ instigations, in particular as regarded the disguising of
themselves as Indians that they might plunder English settlements. By
this means they had saved their own skins, so to speak, and had been
spared many persecutions at the hands of Le Loutre. And now these
unhappy peasants, too dull of brain to thoroughly understand what they
were bringing upon themselves, refused to sign the oath of allegiance
“until after further consideration.” Already six years of such
“consideration” had been granted them by the indulgence of former
governors; and instead of considering, they had been acting,—acting the
part of traitors. As has been said, the present governors of New England
and Nova Scotia were in no mood for longer dalliance, even had they been
able to afford it. If more time were given, the French, whose forces
were the stronger, might regain all they had lost. The Acadians were
aware of the superior strength of France, and this knowledge was one of
the causes of their suicidal tardiness.

It was with a gloomy brow, therefore, that Gabriel stood one bright
September morning at the window of the vicarage at Grand Pré, gazing
forth upon the rich farms and meadowland spread before him, backed by
the azure of mountain and water. Winslow was a thorough soldier, if a
rough man; and, like every officer, regular or colonial, loathed his
task, though convinced of its necessity. At Fort Edward, farther inland,
he had found both sympathy and good fellowship in the English lieutenant
stationed there; but sociabilities had to end now, although a friendly
intercourse was kept up, Winslow and Murray remaining on the best of
terms throughout their detested work.

The two officers had decided not to interfere with the farmers until the
crops were gathered; but as Winslow’s force was greatly outnumbered by
the Acadians, he put up a palisade around the church, graveyard, and
vicarage, thus making a kind of fort. Before doing so, however, he had
directed the Acadians to remove from the church all sacred emblems lest
through the bigotry and fanaticism of the Puritan soldiers these revered
treasures should be destroyed.

The New Englander expressed his own feelings thus, in a letter to his
commanding officer: “Although it is a disagreeable path of duty we are
put upon, I am sensible it is a necessary one, and shall endeavor
strictly to obey your excellency’s orders.”

Winslow and Murray arranged to summon the habitans at the same day and
hour, in order that the stunning blow might fall on their respective
districts at once. A natural antipathy, needless to say, existed betwixt
the Puritan soldiers of New England and the habitans of Acadia. The
former, moreover, were hardened by a life of struggle and difficulty in
a climate and with a soil less genial than that of Acadie; and these
soldiers belonged to the same age and race that put to death helpless
women for witchcraft and hanged harmless Quakers for the crime of
refusing to leave the colony of Massachusetts. Yet even they must at
times have felt some pity for the unfortunate peasants, driven from
their peaceful homes. Le Loutre, however, had felt none during all the
years he had been at the same work.

When the hour arrived in which the assembled Acadians were to be told
that they were prisoners, Gabriel had begged of Winslow’s clemency that
he might be absent from the church; and now, as he stood sadly at the
window of the vicarage parlor, the door of the room was softly pushed
open, and Marin stood before him. His little eyes were restless with
fear, and his naturally crafty countenance was drawn and pale.

Gabriel uttered an exclamation, and sprang forward.

“Tchut!” The peasant put his finger to his lips. “I was in Halifax, eh,
_M. le Capitain_?” he whispered. “Nay, but here am I at Grand Pré—and
so much the worse for a good Catholic! I said, I have tricked these
heretics before and I will trick them again. It is a good deed—but this
time the holy saints were not with me.”

The young officer made a gesture of despair and disgust.

“But, friend Marin, what of thy given word? Didst thou not promise me
that if I obtained permission for thee to go to Halifax, thither thou
wouldst go?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Assuredly. But what of that? One more or less—what matters it? At
Grand Pré no foolish oath was then required—at Halifax, yes!”

“But how didst thou escape from the church?”

“Oh, that was not difficult. We were caught, we men, as rats in a trap;
but the general yielded to our tears and prayers, and we are to choose
daily twenty to go home and console the wives and children. I am among
the first lot chosen, and——”

Gabriel interrupted him impatiently.

“But Louis Herbes, is he also at Grand Pré?”

“Alas, no! the wife, she was too strong. They proceeded to Halifax. I
too desire to go thither now if thou, who art of Acadie, wilt aid me.”

“When thou needest help before, I was of the hated English,” retorted
the young man grimly. “But be I what I may, English or Acadian, I serve
honor first—and so bethink thee!”

“Honor? Assuredly, _M. le Capitain_! Yet listen.” He came nearer,
lowering his voice to a whisper. “I come not back, hearest thou?”

“And what of thy countrymen here? Of a certainty they will be held
answerable for thy treachery.”

“That will be thy part to arrange,” observed Marin coolly.

Gabriel, ever quick to act, sprang upon the peasant and seized him by
the collar of his blouse. For a moment anger deprived him of the power
of speech. Then—

“And thou wilt make me traitor too!” he cried. “Almost I could wish that
no blood of Acadie ran in my veins!”

“And Margot—is she not Acadian?”

Marin was quite unabashed, and there was a leer in the small eyes he
turned up to the young giant who held him as a mastiff holds a rat.

At the name of Margot, Gabriel loosed the man, covered his eyes with his
hands and sank into a chair.

“Ah, Margot!” he groaned.

“Yes, Margot, I say again. Thou wilt let me go, and thou wilt swear that
thou knowest of a truth that I overstayed my time, and was drowned in
the marshes hurrying hither in the darkness of the night, that thou
didst strive to save me and failed. The salt marshes receive the dead,
and cover them kindly. All this thou dost know, and my good character
also. Who will doubt the word of a brave soldier?”

“A clumsy plot, indeed, even were I willing to forswear my honor for
thee!”

Gabriel had his friend by the collar again.

“Release me, or I will not tell thee what I know!” ejaculated Marin
sullenly.

“Tell, and be done!”

The young man let go of his prisoner so suddenly that the fellow nearly
fell upon the floor.

“Not so fast, my brave _capitain_!” Marin was eying him now from a safe
distance. “Not a word of the _belle cousine_ dost thou win from me until
I have thy promise to aid me to escape.”

[Illustration: “‘And thou wilt make me traitor too,’ he cried.”]

Gabriel was silent.

“It is as I say. I know where Margot is to be found, but——” Marin
paused expressively.

Gabriel still did not answer. When at last he spoke, his voice was low
and stern.

“Marin, I owe thee somewhat in that thou didst open thy doors to my
cousin and her friends in their time of stress. Thou hast said that I am
Acadian. True! But also am I English, and an English soldier and a
Protestant. There is my faith and my honor—both forbid a lie. Not even
for Margot can I do this thing.”

His voice broke, and he turned away. Well, he knew the combined
obstinacy and ignorance of the typical Acadian peasant, such as in some
sort Marin was, and he hoped nothing. Marin, on the contrary, not
understanding the situation, would not give up, and, in the few
remaining minutes left uninterrupted, worked his hardest. The temptation
was sore indeed, and by the time his tormentor was summoned to accompany
the deputies, Gabriel’s young face was pale and drawn with the struggle.

“Tell me but one thing,” he said ere they parted, “is it well with her?”

“Well? How know I?” retorted the Acadian, surveying the result of his
work with mingled complacency and disgust. “Perhaps!”

But for the tremendous pressure already being put upon his unhappy
commander by the events of this fifth day of September, Gabriel would
have gone directly to him, and despite his gratitude to Marin for past
services, would have requested that he be detained until he should
reveal the whereabouts of Margot. But Winslow, New England Puritan
though he might be, was finding, in common with his English
brother-in-arms at Fort Edward, “things very heavy on his heart and
hands”; so Gabriel forebore to trouble him with his own matters.

And if his superior’s heart was heavy, how much heavier was his—born
and reared an Acadian of the Acadians, and now with personal loss and
grief added to his other sorrows!

Marin, though crafty and self-seeking, had not the daring to break his
word, unsheltered as he was by Gabriel from the righteous wrath of his
compatriots; so night saw him back within the stockade. He kept his
secret, nevertheless, and neither persuasion nor threats prevailed with
him. The rest of the prisoners were all strangers to Gabriel, and had
never heard of him before; and for reasons of his own, Marin kept their
previous acquaintance dark.

As the days went on, and the prisoners increased in number both at Fort
Edward and Grand Pré, the commanding officers grew uneasy. The
transports that were to bear away the Acadian families with their
household goods were slow in arriving, and it would have been easy for
the prisoners, had they been men of courage and resolution, to overpower
their guards and escape. Unfortunately the Acadian character possessed
none of those qualities necessary for the preservation of freedom, or
for the reclaiming of it if lost. Gabriel’s duties kept him constantly
within the stockade; and the small force having no horses with them, and
the village of Grand Pré, together with the other settlements,
straggling for many miles, he had never been within a league of the
house of Marin or encountered any chance acquaintance. The times were
too strenuous, the crisis too tremendous, to permit of the least
relaxation on the part of a loyal officer.

But although the transports delayed, ships from Boston came and anchored
in the Basin. Winslow thereupon resolved to place about half of his
prisoners upon these ships, and keep them there for better security
until the transports should arrive. To Gabriel, because of his complete
understanding of the language and the nature of his fellow-countrymen,
the general left the hard task of explaining to the prisoners what was
required of them, and of persuading them to submit quietly.

All were very silent as they stood in the churchyard guarded by
soldiers. Winslow himself kept rather in the background, leaving his
subordinate to enact the part of principal in this trying scene. The
general, though a good soldier and popular with his men, had hitherto
passed for a person somewhat ignorant and over-much addicted to
self-satisfaction. But in the last few weeks he had had little
opportunity for satisfaction even with himself. “This affair is more
grievous to me than any service I was ever employed in!” was his
constant lament. And now, as he stood quietly watching Gabriel, he
observed for the first time the change in the young man. He was pale and
wan, and his eyes wore the look of one who is forever seeking and never
finding.

In a low, clear voice he announced the decision of the general, assured
them of their perfect safety, and also that the wives and children of
the married would soon be restored to them.

For a while a great murmuring prevailed, which Gabriel was powerless to
subdue; it seemed as if, despite every effort, bloodshed must be the
result of the manifesto. The New England soldiers, as has been said, had
little sympathy with the “idolaters,” and were ready at a word to make
short work of them. But Winslow was reluctant to say that word, and ere
long Gabriel had the prisoners once more under control. A given number
of unmarried men were then selected, these being sent off under guard to
the ships; after them were to follow a smaller number of married men.

Gabriel stood like a figure carved in stone at the head of his handful
of soldiers, whilst the commanding officer himself selected the Acadian
husbands and fathers. Suddenly, before the guard could interfere, a
figure hurled itself out of the chosen group and precipitated itself
upon Gabriel, while a voice shrieked:

“Thou, thou who art an Acadian, thou canst save me! me, who took the
cousin into my house and fed and sheltered her! Answer, dost hear?”

But Gabriel was on duty, and made as though he neither heard nor saw.
Shaking Marin from his arm, he motioned to his men to replace him in the
ranks.

Winslow’s curiosity, ever active, was, however, aroused, and seizing his
opportunity, he drew his subordinate to one side and questioned him.
Gabriel replied with his customary brevity and straightforwardness.

“And why did you not come at once to me, sir?” rejoined Winslow, puffing
and mopping his fat, red face.

The young man stated his reasons, adding that though Marin might
possibly know where Margot was, no reliance was to be placed upon the
word of a man who was concerned only for his own comfort and had no
respect for truth.

“That may be, that may be,” fussed the kind-hearted general. “But,
lieutenant, you will now conduct these men to the ships. Their women
will of a surety line the way along which you have to pass. Assure them
of my permission to visit their men-folk daily until this troublesome
job be at an end—as God grant it may be ere long. Your eyes may be on
the women as well as on your duty, eh? You are young, yet I have proven
you worthy of trust.”

So saying, the general bustled off, and shortly after the gates of the
stockade were again opened and the procession started for the shores of
the Basin.

For one of Gabriel’s years and position the task set him, though kindly
intentioned, was a heartbreaking one. But a few miles distant, near the
mouth of the Annapolis River, he and Margot had been born and reared. In
spite of his manhood, or perhaps because he was so true a man, the hot
tears rose to his eyes, kept from falling only by the might of his iron
will; for all along the wayside toward the water’s edge kneeled or stood
the wives and children of the men tramping beside him through the late
summer’s dust, gazing as they passed not merely on those wives and
children, but upon the wide and fertile meadows whose harvests they
should never gather more.

At intervals as he walked Gabriel proclaimed the general’s behests and
promises; and one or two women, who knew now for the first time of his
presence in the neighborhood and recognized him, pressed forward to
clasp his hands and cover them with tears, and plead with the man who,
as a little babe, they had held upon their strong knees and pressed to
their broad Acadian bosoms. Unable longer to endure in silence, on his
own account he at length called a halt, and in loud, ringing tones spoke
these words:

“Fellow-countrymen, I serve my general, and him I must obey. But his
heart, even as my own, is heavy for your sufferings, and again I tell
you that your husbands and fathers are not being borne away from you.
They will remain on the ships but a short distance from the shore, and
every day you can visit them until such time as the transports arrive
and you all sail away together, you and your children and your household
goods. Grieve not, then, for loss which is not yours.”

Concluding his brief address he stepped down from the low mound upon
which he had mounted, and confronted the wife of Marin. Evidently she
belonged to the class of women whose indifference had so greatly
astonished the English lieutenant; for her face was calm, and she smiled
as she met Gabriel’s eyes. It was impossible for him to pause longer,
but although her husband’s malevolent gaze was riveted upon her, Julie
extended her hand and caught that of the young officer as he swung past
on the march.

“Look for me at the church,” she whispered, “at the hour of vespers.”

Gabriel’s impulsive heart leaped within him, and in an instant a
thousand wild hopes and imaginings were seething in his brain; and the
women, being appeased and many of them hurrying homeward to prepare
meals to carry to the ships, he was left unmolested. He concluded his
task without further difficulty, and returned to the church.

The general, relieved from pressing anxiety, was in a mood to satisfy
his natural curiosity, and having received his lieutenant’s formal
report, began to ply him with questions respecting his personal affairs.
Gabriel answered without reserve.

“Mark me, sir!” exclaimed Winslow delightedly, “the maiden comes hither
this night with the woman. Then will we have some romance in these
melancholy times.”

And forgetting his dignity, he clapped his subordinate violently on the
shoulder. And Gabriel found nothing to say.


                               CHAPTER IX

But Winslow was in error. The wife of Marin came alone, and Gabriel’s
yearning eyes traveled in vain beyond the sturdy figure of the Acadian
peasant woman for the slight one of his cousin.

The meeting took place in the general’s private parlor.

“Ah, you expected _la petite_!” began Julie volubly, “but that may not
be—not yet.”

“Where is she, friend Julie?” interrupted the young man impatiently.
“How did she escape from the priest? Is she well? Is she happy? Does she
think of me? Only tell me.”

“But that is much to tell, my brave boy,” laughed Julie. “Listen now to
me, who am indeed thy friend. Thou shalt see her, and she shall answer
those many questions with her own lips, but on one condition: the
marriage must be at once—on the instant. Otherwise, Marin——” she
shrugged her shoulders expressively. “It is not well, seest thou, to
fall out with a husband. Now, Marin is a prisoner, therefore am I a weak
woman left alone to deal with a young man of violence, seest thou? Thou
dost seize thy bride, thou dost carry her to thy priest, who am I? But
shouldst thou delay, and I bring _la petite_ to visit thee once, twice,
many times, Marin, he will say, ‘Thou, _bonne femme_, wast the guardian
of this child, and thou didst take her to visit a heretic, allowing her
also to neglect the duties she owes thee.’ But once thy wife, _M. le
Capitain_, and all is over.”

Gabriel listened to this harangue with eyes upon the ground and the red
color slowly flushing to his fair face. He continued silent so long that
the woman lost patience.

“_Mon Dieu!_” she ejaculated under her breath, “is it the English blood
that makes him so dull?”

At last he spoke hesitatingly:

“Good friend, thou sayest, ‘Seest thou?’ I reply, ‘Seest thou not also?’
There has been no talk of marriage betwixt Margot and myself. Truly do I
desire it,” his eyes flashed, and he raised his head. “I desire it with
all the strength that is in me, but with Margot, the maiden, it may be
otherwise.”

Again the wife of Marin laughed. So loudly did she laugh that the
general, pacing the vicarage garden, paused at the open window to
acquaint himself with the cause of her mirth.

“It is the brave _garçon_, my general. He knows nothing. Let him but
arrange for the marriage, and I, even I, Julie, will answer for the
maiden.”

Then, on being questioned by Winslow, she went over her tale once more,
and the two gossips would have promptly settled the whole affair out of
hand had not one of the principals interposed.

“Let me but see her once—only once—first,” implored Gabriel.

The general, promptly won over to the side of Julie, hesitated, in such
haste was he for the pleasurable excitement of a wedding; but finally it
was resolved that the young lover should go the following morning to
Julie’s little cabin, and there win his fair young bride for himself.

As Julie drew on her hood preparatory to departure, Winslow inquired of
her how it fared with the women, remarking that she herself seemed to
bear her fate with much cheer.

“For the others—well, while many lament, all do not. For myself I care
not. I weary of the French rule and the fighting and wandering and the
savage Indians. Anywhere I go willingly where there is peace, and the
soil is fruitful—_v’ là tout!_”

So she went; and the early sun was glistening on meadows yet dewy when
Gabriel, forgetful for the moment of the sorrows around him and his own
distasteful duties, strode along the same dusty road he had traversed
the previous day, arriving in the course of an hour or so at the small
hut inhabited by the Marins. Julie, hastening forth to milk, greeted him
with a broad smile, and waved to him to enter.

Enter he did, and in a second, neither knew how, he held Margot close to
his heart.

It was long before a word was spoken. It was enough that they were
together; and when at length Gabriel found voice, it was at first only
for expressions of pity and endearment for the frail little creature who
seemed lost within his large embrace.

[Illustration: “They sat down side by side . . . before the empty
  hearth.”]

“But I am not so frail, _mon cousin_,” she protested. “I can work and
endure, ah, thou knowest not how much!”

“But never again, _chérie_!” was Gabriel’s reply; and grown strangely
and suddenly bold, he added: “and remember, it must be ‘_mon cousin_’ no
longer, for from this very day there shall be an end of ‘_cousin_’—it
will be ‘wife’ and ‘husband.’ Hearest thou?”

Yes, Margot heard, but had nothing to say. Finally she remarked in a low
voice:

“I would be baptized into thy faith first.”

“What?” cried Gabriel joyfully. “Is that really so, my Margot? What glad
news! Now is all indeed well with us! There is a chaplain at Fort
Edward; he will baptize thee, and marry us.”

They sat down side by side upon the rude bench before the empty hearth,
and talked and made plans as lovers have done since lovers first began.
Gabriel’s mind, as we know, worked quickly, and he soon had beautiful
schemes mapped out for being transferred to Washington’s command in
Virginia, that rising young general having been recently appointed
commander-in-chief of the army there.

“My noble captain is now stationed at Winchester,” he concluded, “and
with him is that grand old soldier Fairfax, the lord lieutenant of the
county. They are engaged in subduing the Indians. At Winchester we will
live, and then shall I be ever at hand to protect my wife.”

News traveled slowly in those days, and Gabriel had heard nothing of the
panic at Winchester, and with the confidence and faith of youth believed
that his hero, George Washington, could accomplish even the impossible.

But duty called, and Julie returned, and Gabriel had to depart; yet not
before it was arranged that, with Winslow’s permission, assured in
advance, Julie should bring Margot that evening to the church, there to
meet the chaplain from Fort Edward, who would perform the two sacraments
of baptism and marriage.

Winslow, naturally of a cheerful disposition, rejoiced in this break in
the monotony of misery, hastily dispatched a messenger to Fort Edward,
and but for Gabriel’s entreaties would have made the marriage as jovial
an affair as Puritanical principles admitted of. Discipline forbade that
a woman could be received as an inmate of a fortified camp, neither
could Gabriel be spared often from duties destined to become daily more
onerous and troublesome; but to the two, scarcely more than boy and
girl, who stood that evening with bowed heads before the chaplain, there
was more than common comfort in the solemn words: “Those whom God hath
joined together let no man put asunder.”

Joy and thankfulness, deep and unutterable, swelled the heart of the
young husband as, from the gate in the stockade, he watched the slight
form of his girl-wife disappear into the gathering shades of night. She
was his now—his to claim, to protect, to have and to hold till death
did them part.

In the excitement and rapture of meeting, Gabriel had hardly bethought
him to ask her how she had escaped from Le Loutre. The fact that she had
escaped, that she was alive and well and with him, filled his mental
horizon. The tale, however, was short. The priest, hard pressed, had
been compelled to give her up to a party of fugitives hastening to
Halifax to take the oath. This party had come upon the Marins, and
thinking they also were bound for Halifax, Margot had willingly joined
them, finding out when it was too late Marin’s change of view.

In those last sad days for her country-people Margot showed of what
stuff she was made. Consoling, upholding, encouraging, she seemed to
have arrived suddenly at a noble womanhood. This, however, was not the
case. She had been growing toward it slowly but surely through years of
adversity.

The continued delay in the coming of the transports bred trouble betwixt
the soldiers and the Acadians. “The soldiers,” we are told, “disliked
and despised them,” the Acadians, and the general found it necessary not
only to enforce discipline more sternly among his troops, but to
administer the lash also on occasion.

At last, one October day, Winslow had four transports at his disposal.
Orders and counter-orders, lamentation and weeping, disturbed the clear,
still air. Villages had to be arranged to go together in the same
transport as well as families; and this, with so few troops at his
command, was no easy task for the general, who naturally was possessed
of very little experience as regarded organization. Gabriel, who while
under Washington had received of necessity some training, was his right
hand man. The male prisoners were removed from the ships to land while
the mustering went forward.

As the women filed past the spot where for a moment the harassed general
and his subordinate had come together, and the pair gazed upon the
melancholy confusion of young and old, and household belongings in
carts, Winslow groaned: “I know they deserve all and more than they
feel; yet it hurts me to hear their weeping and wailing and gnashing of
teeth!”

At Fort Edward, as well as at many other places in the province, the
same terrible scenes were being enacted—those in command, without one
single authentic exception, carrying out the stern decree as mercifully
as possible. Beside the long train of women walked the priest of each
village, encouraging and upholding his flock. A few of these priests
accompanied the exiles, but most of them returned to Canada.

Not all the women, however, were “weeping and wailing.” Some, as has
been remarked, appeared to be wholly undisturbed. Among these latter was
Julie, in the cart with whom was Margot, bound to see the last of her
benefactress. As they passed, both women waved their hands to the two
officers, Julie calling gayly to Gabriel:

“It is well, _M. le mari_! Our ship goes to Virginia, where we shall
again meet. Is it not so?”

For weary weeks the misery was prolonged, and it was the close of the
year before Winslow’s and Murray’s bitter task about the Basin of the
Mines was completed. But improved organization rendered even difficult
things easier, and by the last of October the general was able to part,
though with extreme reluctance, with his most efficient subordinate.
Gabriel, promoted to a captaincy, set sail with his wife on one of the
transports for Virginia.

The poor exiles, with comparatively few exceptions, were scattered
around in the various States from Massachusetts southward, meeting with
no cruelty certainly, but also with no welcome from the struggling
colonials, and only in Louisiana thriving and becoming a permanent
colony. Canada, and even France and England, were also forced to receive
them, and in Canada, among the people of their own faith, their lot was
the hardest. Help in their own church they found none, and indeed in
many instances implored to be taken back to the English Colonies, where
at least they were not treated with actual inhumanity. The war at last
at an end, many, the Herbes amongst the number, found their way back to
their own country. A large portion of the fertile province lay waste,
however, for years, the New England soldier-farmers refusing either part
or lot in it, and English settlers finally being brought from over sea.

It is doubtful if the Acadians ever learned the fate of their leader and
tyrant. Captured on the ocean by the English, Le Loutre died in prison,
after having been nearly assassinated by one of the soldiers of the
guard, who swore that the holy father had once in Acadie tried to take
his scalp!

And Gabriel and Margot? Their lives were happy, although the pain of
separation was sometimes theirs, and they were often exposed to perils
and dangers. As an officer under Washington through stirring times, both
in the Indian wars and the war of the Revolution, Gabriel’s could not be
other than the life of sacrifice and self-devotion demanded by the life
of a true patriot. Margot seconded him bravely, cheering him on at the
trumpet-call of duty and never restraining him by selfish fears and
interests. She kept around her a few of her country people; and there in
Virginia she reared a family of brave boys to follow in their father’s
steps.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

List of Illustrations for _Gabriel the Acadian_ was moved from the front
of the book to the start of the novel.

A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected
without note.

A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public
domain.

[End of _The Angel of His Presence_ by G.L. Hill and _Gabriel the
Acadian_ by E.M.N. Bowyer]