At first I was for mocking and laughing down so blind a propulsion, but then the thought that it was in some sort an outward expression of my great desire for Yvonne compelled me to take it with sobriety. Possibly, indeed, it meant that she was thinking of me, needing me even, at the moment; and at this I sprang forward in fierce haste lest I should be too late for the ferry. I was not going to follow blindly an impulse which I could not quite comprehend. I would not be a plaything of whims and vapours. But I would so far yield as to get safely upon the Grand Pré side of the river, pay a visit or two there which I had intended deferring to next day, and return to De Lamourie’s about bed-time, too late to invite another rebuff from Yvonne. This compromise gave me peace of mind, but did not delay my pace. I was back at the ferry in a few minutes, in time to see old yellow Ba’tiste fastening up the scow as a sign that ferrying was over till next tide.
95I rushed down to him with a vehemence which left no need of words. Dashing through the waterside strip of red and glistening mud I sprang upon the scow, and cried:
“If ever you loved me, Ba’tiste,—if ever you loved my father before me,—one more trip! I must be in Grand Pré to-night if I have to swim!”
His lean, yellow, weather-tanned face wrinkled shrewdly, and he cast off again without a moment’s hesitation, saying heartily as he did so:
“If it only depended on what I could do for you, Master Paul, your will and your way would right soon meet.”
“I always knew I could count on you, Ba’tiste,” said I warmly, watching with satisfaction the tawny breadth of water widen out between the shore and the rear of the scow, as the ferryman strained rhythmically upon the great oar. I sniffed deep breaths of the cool, contenting air which blew with a salty bitterness from the uncovering flats; and I dimly imagined then what now I know, that when the breath of the tide flats has got into one’s veins at birth he must make frequent return to them in after-life, or his strength will languish.
“So you got wind, Master Paul, of Le F?ret’s return, and thought well to keep on his track, eh?” panted Ba’tiste.
96“What do you mean?” I asked, awakened from my reverie.
“Didn’t you know he came right back, as soon as he give you the slip?” asked Ba’tiste. “I ferried him over again not an hour gone.”
“Why,” I cried in surprise, “I thought he was on his way to the Black Abbé!”
Ba’tiste smiled wisely.
“He lied!” said he. “You don’t know that lot yet, Master Paul. I saw you listened careless-like, but I thought you knew that was all lies about the Black Abbé and Vaurin being at Pereau. If they’d been at Pereau ‘The Ferret’ would ha’ said they were at Piziquid.”
“I’m an ass!” I exclaimed bitterly.
Ba’tiste laughed.
“That’s not the name you get hereabouts, Master Paul. But I reckon you’ve been used to dealing with honest men.”
“I believe I do trust too easily, my friend,” said I. “But one thing I know, and that is this: I will make never a mistake in trusting you, and some other faithful friends whom I might name.”
This seemed to Ba’tiste too obvious to need reply, so he merely wished me good fortune as I sprang ashore and made haste up the trail.
I made haste—but alas, not back toward Grand Pré! In the bitter after-days I had leisure to curse the obstinate folly which led me to carry 97out my plan of delay instead of hurrying straight to Yvonne’s side. But I had made up my mind that the best time to return to De Lamourie’s was about the end of evening—and my dull wits failed to see in Le F?ret’s action any sufficient cause to change my plans. It never occurred to me, conceited fool that I was, that the causes which had swayed the Black Abbé to my will the night before might in the meantime have ceased to work. Even had this idea succeeded in penetrating my thick apprehension, I suppose it would have made no difference. I should have felt sure that the abbé’s scoundrel crew would choose none but the dim hours after midnight for anything their malice might intend. The fact is, I had been yielding to inauthoritative impulses and vague premonitions till the reaction had set in, determining me to be at all costs coolly reasonable. Now Fortune with her fine irony loves to emphasize the fact that the slave of reason often proves the most pitiable of fools. Such was I when I turned to my right from the ferry, and strode through the scented, leafy dusk to the open flax-fields of the Le Marchand settlement, though the disregarded monitor within me was urging that I should turn to the left, through the old beech woods, to Grand Pré—and Yvonne.
The Le Marchand settlement in those days consisted of six little farms, each with its strip of 98upland flax-field and apple-orchard, and a bit of rich, secluded dyke held in common. All the Le Marchands—father and five sons—still owned their hereditary allegiance to the Sieur de Briart, and paid him their little rents as occasion offered. My welcome was not such as is commonly accorded to the tax-gatherer. These retainers of my uncle’s made me feel that I was myself their seigneur; and their rents, paid voluntarily and upon their own reckonings, were in effect a love-gift. I supped—chiefly upon buckwheat cakes—at the cottage of Le Marchand père, and then, dark having fallen softly upon the quiet fields, I set out at a gentle pace for Grand Pré village.
Soon after I got into the still dark of the woods the moon rose clear of the Gaspereau hills, and thrust long white fingers toward me through the leafage. The silence and the pale, elusive lights presently got a grip upon my mood, and my anxieties doubled, and trebled, and crowded upon each other, till I found myself walking at a breathless pace, just the hither side of a run. I stopped short, with a laugh of vexation, and forced myself to go moderately.
I was perhaps half way to Grand Pré, and in the deepest gloom of the woods,—a little dip where scarce a moonbeam came,—when, with a suddenness that gave even my seasoned nerves a start, a tall figure stood noiselessly before me.
99I clapped my hand upon my sword and asked angrily:
“Who are you?”
But even as I spoke I knew the apparition for Gr?l. I laughed, and exclaimed:
“Pardon me, Mysterious One. And pray tell me why you are come, for I am in some haste!”
“Haste?” he re?choed, with biting scorn. “Where was your haste two hours ago? Fool, poor fool, staying to fill your belly and wag your chin with the clod-hoppers! You are even now too late.”
“Too late for what?” I asked blankly, shaken with a nameless fear.
“Come and see!” was the curt answer; and he led the way forward to a little knoll, whence, the trees having fallen apart, could be had a view of Grand Pré.
There was a red light wavering at the back of the village, and against it the gables stood out blackly.
“I think you promised to guard that house!” said Gr?l.
But I had no answer. With a cry of rage and horror I was away, running at the top of my speed. The Abbé’s stroke had fallen; and I—with a sickness that clutched my heart—saw that my absence might well be set down to treachery.