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. I 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 Fûret’s return, and thought well to keep on his track, eh?” panted Ba’tiste. “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.”