My heart was surging with gratitude to God for this chance. I vowed to save Anderson, though it cost me my own life. If Yvonne loved him she should then owe her happiness to me. If she did not love him she would see that I was quite other than the traitor she imagined. Strange to say, I felt no bitterness against her for so misjudging me. It seemed to me that my folly had been so great that I had deserved to be misjudged. But now, here was my opportunity. I swore under my breath that it should not slip from my grasp. It was a good two-thirds of a mile from the parsonage to the wharf, and I had time to scheme as I ran. I thought at once of Nicole, the smith,—of his boat, and his brawn, and his loyal fidelity. His boat would assuredly be at the wharf, but where should I find his brawn and his fidelity? At his cottage, beside the forge, I stopped to ask for him. “At the fire, monsieur,” quavered his old mother, poking a troubled face from the window in answer to my thundering on the door. “What would you with him? Do not lead him into harm, Master Paul!” But I was off without answering; and the poor, creaking, worried old voice followed in my ears: “He takes no sides. He hurts no one, Master Paul!” Passing the De Lamourie gate I paused to shout at the height of my lungs: “Nicole! Nicole Brun! I want you! Nicole! Nicole!” “Coming, Master Paul!” was the prompt reply, out of the heart of the crowd; and in a moment the active, thick-set form appeared, bareheaded as usual, for I had never known Nicole to cover his black shock with cap or hat. I was leaning on the fence to get my breath. “You were there, Nicole, when I was looking for a friend?” said I, eying him with sharp question and reproach as he came up. “You did not seem to need any one just then, Master Paul; leastwise, no one that was thereabouts,” he answered, with a sheepish mixture of bantering and apology. I ignored both. I knew him to be true. “Will you come with me, right now, Nicole Brun?” I asked, starting off again toward the river. “You know I will, Master Paul,” said he, close at my side. “But where? What are we up to?” “The boat!” said I. “The wind serves. I’m going to the Kenneticook to warn Anderson that the Black Abbé is to cut his throat this night!” I turned and looked him in the eyes as I spoke. His long, determined upper lip drew down at my words, but his little grey eyes flashed upon mine a half-resigned, half-humorous acquiescence. “It’s risky, Master Paul. And no good, like as not,” he answered. “We’ll be just about in time to get our own throats slit, I’m thinking,—to say nothing of the hair,” he added, rubbing his crown with rueful apprehension. “Let me have your boat, and I go alone,” said I curtly. But I was sure of him nevertheless. “I’m with you, sure, Master Paul, if you _will_ go,” he rejoined. “And maybe it’s worth while to disturb his reverence’s plans, if it _be_ only an Englishman that we’re taking so much trouble about.”