“You are welcome, father,” began Monsieur de Lamourie, advancing to meet the visitor, “to my humble”—But the harsh voice cut him short.

“Lie not to me, Giles de Lamourie,” said the grim priest, extending a long left hand as if in anathema. “Well do I know my face is not welcome in this house!”

De Lamourie drew himself up haughtily, and Madame interrupted.

“Good father,” said she most sweetly, but with an edge to her voice, “do you not take something the advantage of your gown? Might I not be so bold as to entreat a more courteous deliverance of your commands?”

“What have I to do with forms and courtesies, woman?” he answered—and ignored Yvonne’s laughing acquiescence of “What, indeed, monsieur?” “I come to admonish you back to your duty; and to warn you, if you heed not. I learn that you are about to go to Halifax, Giles de Lamourie, and there forswear France, bowing your neck to the English robber. Is this true?”

“I am about to swear allegiance to England, Father La Garne,” said De Lamourie coldly.

The priest’s pale eyes narrowed.

“There is yet time to change your mind,” said he, in a voice grown suddenly smooth. “Give me your word that you will remain faithful to France and the bolt which even now hangs over your recreant head shall never fall!”

I looked about me in deep astonishment. Yvonne’s face was splendid in its impatient scorn. Madame looked solicitous, but composed. Anderson smiled coolly. But De Lamourie was hot with indignation.

“It was not to be dictated to by every tonsured meddler that I came to Acadie,” he cried, rashly laying himself open.

“I have heard as much,” said the priest dryly. “But enough of this talk,” he went on, his voice again vibrating. “You, George Anderson, seducer of these people from their king, look to yourself! Your threshold is red. As for this house”—and he looked around with slow and solemn menace—“as for this house, it shall not see to-morrow’s sun!”

Hitherto I had been silent, as became a mere new-come guest; but this was too much for me.

“Ay, but it shall!” said I bluntly, stepping forward.

La Garne looked at me with unaffected surprise and contempt.

“And pray, sir, who may you be to speak so confidently?” he asked.

“I am an officer of the king, Sir AbbÉ,” I answered, “and a messenger of the governor of New France, and a man of my word. Your quarrel here I do not very well understand, but I beg you to understand that this house is the house of my friends. I know you, Sir AbbÉ,—I have heard rumour of your work at Beaubassin, Baie Verte, and Gros Ile. I tell you, I will not suffer you to lift your hand against this house!”

“Truly, monsieur, you speak large,” sneered the priest. “But you may, perchance, have authority. I seem to have seen your face before. Your name?”

“Paul Grande,” said I, bowing.

La Garne’s face changed. He looked at me curiously, and then, with a sort of bitter tolerance, shrugged his shoulders.

“You have been to Monsieur le Commandant Vergor, at BeausÉjour?” he asked.

I bowed.

“And to Vaurin, at Piziquid?” he went on thoughtfully.

I fancied that a shade of suspicion passed over the faces of my hosts; and Yvonne’s face paled slightly; but I replied:

“I have just come from Piziquid.”

“Your authority is sufficient, then, monsieur,” said he. “The messenger of the governor to Vaurin doubtless knows his business, and it is unnecessary for me to interfere.”

I bowed my thanks, holding courtesy to be in place, since I had gained my point.

“And I pardon your abruptness, Monsieur Grande,” continued the Black AbbÉ. “We are both working for the king. We have no right to quarrel when we have such great work to do. I am sure I may accept your apology for your abruptness?” And he looked at me with an air of suggestion.

I was puzzled at his changed demeanour, but I would not show myself at a loss. Still less would I apologize, or suffer any pretence of friendliness between himself and me.

“I am sure you may,” said I pleasantly. And I think the reply a prudent one.

Yvonne smiled—I just caught the smile; but the abbÉ turned on his heel.

“I withdraw my admonition,” he said to De Lamourie smoothly, “and leave your case in the hands of this gentleman, your good friend. I wish you a swift conversion—or a long repentance.” And with a glance at me which I liked not, but could by no means interpret, he was gone.

The room grew straightway the brighter for his going.