I came upon the De Lamourie farmhouse by the rear of the orchard; and down through the low, blossoming arches, now humming with night moths and honey beetles, I hastened toward the front door. Before I reached it there arose an angry barking from the yard, and a huge black dog, objecting to the manner of my approach, came charging upon me with appearance of malign intent.

I was vexed at the notion of a possible encounter, for I would not use my sword or my pistols on the guardian of my friend’s domain; yet I had small desire that the brute should tear my clothes. I cursed my folly in not carrying a stick wherewith to beat off such commonplace assailants. But there was nothing for it save indifference, so I paid no attention to the dog until he was almost upon me. Then I turned my head and said sharply, “Down, sir, down!”

To all domestic animals the voice of authority is the voice of right. I had forgotten that for the moment. The dog stopped, and stood growling doubtfully. He could not muster up resolution to attack one who spoke with such an assurance of privilege. Yet what could justify my highly irregular approach? He would await developments. In a casual, friendly manner, as I walked on, I stretched out the back of my hand to him, as if to signify that he might lick it if he would; but this he was by no means ready for, so he kept his distance obstinately.

In another moment there appeared at the head of the path a white, slight figure, with something black about the head and shoulders. It was Yvonne, come out to see the cause of the loud disturbance.

“It is I, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed in an eager voice, hastening to meet her,—“Paul Grande, back from the West.”

A slight gasping cry escaped her, and she paused irresolutely. It was but for the least part of an instant; yet my memory took note of it afterward, though it passed me unobserved at the time. Then she came to meet me with outstretched hands of welcome. Both little hands I crushed together passionately in my grasp, and would have dropped on my knees to kiss them but for two hindrances: Firstly, her father appeared at the moment close behind her—and things which are but natural in privacy are like to seem theatrical when critically observed. Further, finding perhaps a too frank eloquence in my demeanour, Yvonne had swiftly but firmly extricated her hands from their captivity. She had said nothing but “I am glad to see you again, after so long a time, monsieur;” and this so quietly that I knew not whether it was indifference spoke, or emotion.

But the welcome of Giles de Lamourie was right ardent for one of his courteous reserve. There was an affection in his voice that warmed my spirit strangely, the more that I had never suspected it; and he kissed me on both cheeks as if I had been his own son—“as,” said the up-leaping heart within me, “I do most resolutely set myself to be!”

“And to what good chance do we owe it, Paul, that we see you here at Grand PrÉ, at a time when the swords of New France are everywhere busy?” he asked.

“To a brief season of idleness in two years of ceaseless action,” I replied, “and to a desire that would not be denied.” I sought furtively to catch Yvonne’s eyes; but she was picking an apple-flower to pieces. This little dainty depredation of her fingers pierced me with remembrance.

“You have earned your idleness, Paul,” said De Lamourie, “if the stories we hear of your exploits be the half of them true. But we had thought down here that Quebec”—“or Trois Pistoles,” murmured Yvonne over the remnants of the apple-flower—“would have offered metal more attractive for the enrichment of your holiday.”

I flushed hotly. But in the deepening dusk my confusion passed unseen. What gossip had come this way? What magnifying and distortion of a very little affair, so soon gone by and so lightly forgotten?

“The swords of New France are just now sheathed for a little,” said I, with some reserve in my voice. “They are biding the call to new and hotter work, or I should not be free for even this breathing-spell. As for Quebec,”—for I would not seem to have heard mademoiselle’s interruption,—“for years there has been but one place where I desired to be, and that is here; so I have come, but it is not for long. Great schemes are afoot.”

“For long or for little, my boy,” said he, dropping his tone of banter, “your home here must be under our roof.”

Having intended staying, as of old, with Father Fafard, I knew not for a moment what to say. I would—and yet a voice within said I would not. I noted that Yvonne spoke no word in support of her father’s invitation. While I hesitated we had entered the house, and I found myself bending over the wizened little hand of Madame de Lamourie. My decision was postponed. Had I guessed how my silence would by and by be misinterpreted I would assuredly have decided on the spot, whichever way.

“It is not only for the breath of gayety from Chateau St. Louis which you bring with you, my dear Paul, that you are welcome,” said Madame, with that fine air of affectionate coquetry, reminiscent of Versailles, which so delightfully became her.

I kissed her hand again. We had always been the best of friends.

“But let me present to you,” she went on, “our good friend, who must also be yours: Mr. George Anderson;” and observing for the first time a tall, broad-shouldered, ruddy man, who stood a little to one side of the fireplace, I bowed to him very courteously. Our eyes met. I felt for him a prompt friendliness, and as if moved by one impulse we clasped hands.

“With all my heart,” said I, being then in cordial mood, and eager to love one loved of these my friends.

“And mine,” he said, in a quiet, grave voice, “if it please you, monsieur.”

“Yet,” I laughed, “if you are English, Monsieur Anderson, we must officially be enemies. I trust our difference may be in all love.”

“Yes,” said Madame, with a dry little biting accent which she much affected, “yes, indeed, in all love, my dear Paul. Monsieur Anderson is English—and he is the betrothed husband of our Yvonne,” she added, watching me keenly.

It seemed to me as if there had been a sudden roaring noise and then these last dreadful words coming coldly upon a great silence. At that moment everything stamped itself ineffaceably on my brain. I see myself grasp the back of a chair, that I may stand with the more irreproachable steadiness. I see Madame’s curious scrutiny. I see Yvonne’s eyes, which had swiftly sought my face as the words were spoken, change and warm to mine for the least fraction of a second. I see all this now, and her slim form unspeakably graceful against the dark wainscoting of the chimney side. Then it all seemed to swim, and I knew that it was with great effort of will I steadied myself; and at last I perceived that Yvonne was holding both Anderson and her father in rapt attention by a sort of radiance of light speech and dainty gesture. I dimly came to understand that Yvonne had seen in my face something which she had not looked to see there, and, moved to compassion, had come to my aid and covered up my hurt. In a moment more I was master of myself, but I knew that Madame’s eyes had never left me. She liked me more than a little; but a certain mirthful malice, which she had retained from the old gay days in France, made her cruel whensoever one afforded her the spectacle of a tragedy.

All this takes long in the telling; but it was perhaps not above a minute ere I was able to perceive that Mademoiselle’s diversion had been upon the theme of one’s duty to one’s enemies. What she had said I knew not, nor know I to this day; but I will wager it was both witty and wise. I only know that at this point a direct appeal was made to me.

“You, monsieur,” said Anderson, in his measured tones, “will surely grant that it is always virtuous, and often possible, to love one’s enemies.”

“But never prudent!” interjected De Lamourie, whose bitter experiences in Paris colored his conclusions.

“Your testimony, monsieur, as that of one who has sent so many of them to Paradise, is much to be desired upon this subject,” exclaimed Yvonne, in a tone of challenge, at the same time flashing over me a look which worked upon me like a wizard’s spell, making me straightway strong and ready.

“Well may we love them!” I cried, with an air of sober mockery. “Our enemies are our opportunities; and without our opportunities, where are we?”

“All our life is our opportunity, and if we be brave and faithful to church and king we are made great by it,” exclaimed a harsh, intense voice behind us.

I noted a look of something like consternation on De Lamourie’s face, and a mocking defiance in the eyes of Yvonne. We turned about hastily to greet the new-comer. I knew at once, by hearsay, that dark-robed figure—the high, narrow, tonsured head—the long nose with its aggressively bulbous tip—the thin lips with their crafty smile—the dogged and indomitable jaw. It was La Garne, the Black AbbÉ, master of the Micmac tribes, and terror of the English in Acadie. He was a devoted servant to the flag I served, the lilied banner of France; but I dreaded and detested him, for I held that he brought dishonour on the French cause, as well as on his priestly office, by his devious methods, his treacheries, and his cruelties. War, I cannot but think, becomes a gross and hideous thing whensoever it is suffered to slip out of the control of gentlemen, who alone know how to maintain its courtesies.