His voice, big, yet low and soft, had ever quaintly reminded me of a ripe apple in its mellow firmness. Both hands in his, I answered, bantering him: “But, father, the church gave me work to do last night. Could I neglect that? I had to see that the Reverend Father La Garne did not turn aside from his sacred ministrations to burn down the houses of my friends.” The kind face grew grave and stern. “I know! I know!” he said. “This land of Acadie is in an evil case. But come, let us eat, and talk afterwards. I have waited for you far past my hour.” He turned into his little dining-room, a very plainly furnished closet off the kitchen. I was hungry, so for a space there was no talk, while the fried chicken and barley cakes which the brown old housekeeper set before us made rapid disappearance. Then came sweet curds with thick cream, and sugar of the maple grated over them,—a dish of which delectable memories had clung to me from boyhood. This savory and wholesome meal done, Father Fafard brought out some dark-red West Indian rum which smelled most pleasantly. As he poured it for me he tapped the bottle and said: “This comes to us by way of Boston. These English have an excellent judgment in liquor, Paul. It is one of our small compensations.” I laughed, thinking of the scant concern it was to Father Fafard, ever, for all his fineness of palate, one of the most abstemious of men. As we sat at ease and sipped the brew he said: “I hear you faced down the Black Abbé last night, and fairly drove him off the field.” “I had that satisfaction,” said I, striving to look modest over it. “He gave way to you, the Black Abbé himself, who browbeats the commandant at Beauséjour, and fears no man living,—unless it be that mad heretic Grûl, perchance! And he yielded to your authority, my boy? How do you account for the miracle?” Now it had not hitherto seemed to me so much of a miracle, and I was a shade nettled that it should seem one to others. I was used to controlling violent men, and why not meddling priests? “I suppose he saw I meant it. Perhaps he respected the king’s commission. I know not,” said I with indifference. Father Fafard smiled dryly. “I grant,” said he, “that you are a hard man to cross, Paul, for all your graciousness. But La Garne would risk that, or anything; and he cares for the king’s commission only when it suits him to care for it. Oh, no! If he gave way to you he believed you were doing his work, and he would not interfere. What _is_ your errand to Acadie, Paul?” he added, suddenly leaning forward and searching my face. I felt myself flush with indignation, and half rose from my seat. Then I remembered that he knew nothing of my reasons for coming, and that his question was but natural. This cooled me. But I looked him reproachfully in the eyes.