I noted a look of something like consternation on De Lamourie’s face, and a mocking defiance in the eyes of Yvonne. We turned about hastily to greet the new-comer. I knew at once, by hearsay, that dark-robed figure—the high, narrow, tonsured head—the long nose with its aggressively bulbous tip—the thin lips with their crafty smile—the dogged and indomitable jaw. It was La Garne, the Black Abbé, master of the Micmac tribes, and terror of the English in Acadie. He was a devoted servant to the flag I served, the lilied banner of France; but I dreaded and detested him, for I held that he brought dishonour on the French cause, as well as on his priestly office, by his devious methods, his treacheries, and his cruelties. War, I cannot but think, becomes a gross and hideous thing whensoever it is suffered to slip out of the control of gentlemen, who alone know how to maintain its courtesies. Chapter V The Black Abbé Defers “You are welcome, father,” began Monsieur de Lamourie, advancing to meet the visitor, “to my humble”—But the harsh voice cut him short. “Lie not to me, Giles de Lamourie,” said the grim priest, extending a long left hand as if in anathema. “Well do I know my face is not welcome in this house!” De Lamourie drew himself up haughtily, and Madame interrupted. “Good father,” said she most sweetly, but with an edge to her voice, “do you not take something the advantage of your gown? Might I not be so bold as to entreat a more courteous deliverance of your commands?” “What have I to do with forms and courtesies, woman?” he answered—and ignored Yvonne’s laughing acquiescence of “What, indeed, monsieur?” “I come to admonish you back to your duty; and to warn you, if you heed not. I learn that you are about to go to Halifax, Giles de Lamourie, and there forswear France, bowing your neck to the English robber. Is this true?” “I am about to swear allegiance to England, Father La Garne,” said De Lamourie coldly. The priest’s pale eyes narrowed. “There is yet time to change your mind,” said he, in a voice grown suddenly smooth. “Give me your word that you will remain faithful to France and the bolt which even now hangs over your recreant head shall never fall!” I looked about me in deep astonishment. Yvonne’s face was splendid in its impatient scorn. Madame looked solicitous, but composed. Anderson smiled coolly. But De Lamourie was hot with indignation. “It was not to be dictated to by every tonsured meddler that I came to Acadie,” he cried, rashly laying himself open. “I have heard as much,” said the priest dryly. “But enough of this talk,” he went on, his voice again vibrating. “You, George Anderson, seducer of these people from their king, look to yourself! Your threshold is red. As for this house”—and he looked around with slow and solemn menace—“as for this house, it shall not see to-morrow’s sun!”