“I will trust Yvonne de Lamourie’s plighted word,” he said gravely, after a pause of some moments. Then a wave of strong feeling went over his face, and he broke out with a passion in his voice: “Paul, do not misjudge me. I love you as my own son, and there is no one else in the world whom I love as I love Yvonne de Lamourie. Not her own father can love her as I do, a lonely old man to whom her face is more than sunshine. Do I not desire with all my heart that you should have her—you whom I trust, you whom I know to be a true son of the church? But as I must tell you again, though it grieves me to say it, you have come too late. The Englishman’s faithful and unselfish devotion has won her promise. She will keep it, and she will bring him into the church. Moreover, she owes him more than she can ever repay. Giles de Lamourie has long been under the suspicion of the English government, who accused him, unjustly, of having had a hand in the massacre of the New Englanders here. His estates were on the very verge of confiscation; but Anderson saved him and made him secure. That there is some dreadful fate even now hanging over this fair land I feel assured. What it may be I dare not guess; but in the hour of ruin George Anderson will see that the house of De Lamourie stands unscathed. For, Paul, I know that Heaven is with the English in this quarrel. Our iniquity in high places has not escaped unseen.” “Grûl’s prophecy touches even you,” I remarked, rising. “But I must go, father. I have errands across the dyke, for my uncle; and I would be back for the night, if possible, to ease the fears of Monsieur de Lamourie. And as for _her_—be assured I will use none but fair means in the great venture of my life.” “I am assured of it, Paul,” said he, grasping my outstretched hand with all affection. “And I am assured, too, that you will utterly and irremediably fail. Therefore I am the less troubled, my dear boy, though my heart is sore enough for you.” “I can but thank God,” I retorted cheerfully, retreating down the path between the lilacs, “that the offices of priest and prophet do sometimes exist apart.” As I looked back at him, before turning down the lane, his kind, round, ruddy face was puckered solicitously over a problem which grew but the harder as he pondered it. Chapter XII Le Fûret at the Ferry