“And I have been wont to imagine you a madman,” said I. “But I seem to have been mistaken.” “Were I mad utterly as I seem,” said he, in a voice which thrilled me to the bone, “it would not be strange. I am mad but on one subject; and on that I believe that God will adjudge me sanest.” He was silent for a long time, that white fire playing in his eyes; and I dared not break upon his reverie. At last I ventured, for my tongue ached with questions unasked: “How did you find me when I fell over the cliff?” I queried. “And where was the Englishman?” My mouth once opened, two questions instead of one jumped out. “It was noon,” said Grûl, “and I found your Englishman sitting by you waiting for the sky to fall. Had the Micmacs come instead of me, your two scalps would have risen nimbly together. He is a good man and brave; but he lacks wits. A woman could trust him to do anything but keep her from yawning!” I grinned with the merest silly delight—a mean delight. But Grûl went on: “He is worth a dozen cleverer men; but he fatigued me. I sent him away. I told him just how to go to reach the Piziquid settlement, whom to ask for, and what help to bring for his sick comrade. Then, knowing what was about to befall, and having in mind a service which you will do me at a later day, and divining that you would rather be sick in a madman’s cave than in an English jail, I brought you here. I was reputed a wizard in the old days in France, for having brought men back from the very gape of the grave; and I knew you would be long sick.” I looked at him, and I think my grateful love needed no words. “And what became of the Englishman?” I asked presently. “He appeared at last in Grand Pré,” answered Grûl, “and told the truth of you, and dwelt awhile within the shadow of the chapel, to be near the guests of Father Fafard; and he got a strong guard placed in the village close at hand, that those who loved the English and feared the abbé might sleep in peace. I hear he presses for the redemption of Mademoiselle’s pledge; but she, to the much vexation of Monsieur and Madame, is something dilatory in her obedience. Of course she will obey in the end. Even Father Fafard exhorts her to that, for obedience sums all virtues in a maid. But she has an absurd idea that the Englishman should present alive to her the man who saved his life, before claiming reward at hands of hers. I might have enabled him to do this; but you were not in a mind to be consulted.” “You are the wisest man I ever knew,” said I, conscious of an absurd inclination to fling myself at his feet and do penance for past supercilious underratings. He seemed to accept the tribute as not undue, and again took up his monologue.