I paused, partly to get breath, partly to follow him with a look of grateful admiration, the modest, still, strong, faithful retainer, of a type nigh vanished. He ran with his black-shock head thrust forward, and the great dog bounded beside him like a kitten. It was the last I ever saw of Nicole Brun; nor to this day, for all my searching, have I had word of what befell him. Of the dog I learned something, seeing his skin, a year later, worn upon the shoulders of an Indian boy of the Micmac settlement. From this I could make shrewd guess at the fate of my Nicole; but the Indian lies astutely, and I could prove nothing. Sleep well, Nicole, my brave and true! George Anderson’s wide red door carried a brass knocker which grinned venomously in the moonlight. My first summons brought no answer. Then I thundered again, imperatively, and I heard Anderson’s voice within, calling to servants. No servants made reply, so again I hammered, and shook fiercely at the door. Then he came himself, looking bewildered. “Monsieur Grande, pardon me! The servants”— “The servants have fled,” I interrupted. “Come quickly! There is not a minute to lose. The abbé’s savages are near. They are coming to scalp you and burn your house. We will leave them the house.” There was no sign of fear on his face, merely annoyance; and I saw that his mind worked but heavily. “Come in!” he said, leading the way into a wide room looking out upon the Kenneticook tide. “I won’t be driven by those curs. They dare not touch me. At the worst, with the help of the servants we can fight them off. Sit down, monsieur.” And he proceeded calmly to pull on his boots. I had followed him inside, wild at his obstinacy. “I tell you,” said I, “they want your scalp. The servants are traitors and have stolen away while you slept. We are alone. Come, man, come! Would you have _my_ throat cut, too?” And I shook him by the shoulder. “Why have _you_ come?” he asked, unmoved, staring at me. “For the sake of Yvonne de Lamourie!” “Oh!” said he, eying me with a slow hostility. “You fool!” I exclaimed. “They have burned De Lamourie’s. I swore to Yvonne de Lamourie that I would save you or die with you. If you think she loves you, stir yourself. I cannot carry you. Look at that!” I pointed to the window. At Yvonne’s name he had risen to his feet. He looked out. A group of canoes was turning in to shore, not two furlongs distant. “Where is she?” he inquired, alert at last. “Safe,” said I curtly, “at Father Fafard’s.” Still he wavered, brave, but undecided. I think he wondered why I was her chosen messenger. “She is in a frenzy at your peril,” I said, though the words stuck in my throat. That moved him. His face lighted with boyish pleasure. “Come!” he cried, as if he had been urging me all the time. “We’ll slip out at the back, and keep the buildings between us and the river till we reach the woods.” “Have you no weapon?” I asked.