“Do _you_ think me a conspirator and a companion of cut-throats?” I asked. “I have no public business to bring me here to Grand Pré, father. I got short leave from my general, my first in two years, and I have come to Acadie for my own pleasure and for no reason else. My word!” He leaned back with an air of relief. “It is, of course, enough, Paul,” said he heartily. “But in these bad days one knows not what to expect, nor whence the bolt may fall. There is distrust on all sides. As for my unhappy people, they are like to be ground to dust between the upper stone of England and the lower stone of France.” He sighed heavily, looking out upon his dooryard lilacs as if he thought to bid them soon farewell. Then the kindly glance came back into his eyes, and he turned them again upon me. “But why,” he inquired, “did you go first to Monsieur de Lamourie’s, instead of coming, as of old, at once to me?” I hesitated; then decided to speak frankly, so far as might seem fitting. “Grûl warned me,” said I, “that Mademoiselle de Lamourie was in danger. I dared not delay.” “Why she in especial?” he persisted, gravely teasing, as was his right and custom. “Were not monsieur and madame in like peril of the good abbé’s hand?” “It was her peril that most concerned me,” I said bluntly. He studied my face, and then, I suppose, read my heart, which I made no effort to veil. The smile went from his lips. “I fear you love the girl, Paul,” said he very gently. “I am sorry for you, more sorry than I can say. But you are too late. Were you told about the Englishman?” “I met him,” said I, with a voice less steady than I desired it to be, for my heart was straightway in insurrection at the topic. “Madame told me, incidentally. But it is _not_ too late, father! I may call it so when she is dead, or I.” “It is your hurt that speaks in haste,” said he rebukingly. “But you know you are wrong, and such words idle. Indeed, my dear, dear boy, I would you had her, not he. But her troth is solemnly plighted, and he is a good man and fair to look at; though I like him not over well. As he was a Protestant, I long stood out against him; but Giles de Lamourie is now half English at heart, and Yvonne is wilful. Why were you not here to help me a half year back, my boy?” “Ay! why not?” I exclaimed bitterly, gripping my pewter mug till it lost all semblance of a mug. “And why was I a fool, a blind, blind dolt, when I _was_ here, two years back? But I am here now. And you shall see I am not too late!” “You speak rashly, Paul,” said he, with a trace of sternness. “You may be sure, however much I love you, I will not help you now in your wicked purpose. Would you make her false to her word?” “Her word was false to her heart, that I know,” said I. “Better be false for a little than for a lifetime, and two lives made as one death for it.” The round, kindly face smiled ironically at the passion which had crept into my voice.