“He grieves for me, thinking me dead,” said I. “Tell him, I beg of you, that one who loves him waits to see him in the wood by the lower ford.” Her face clouded with suspicion. “How shall I know—how shall he know—you are honest?” she asked. I was troubled. “_You_ must judge by your woman’s wit,” said I. “And he will come. He fears no one. But no, tell him Paul Grande waits at the lower ford.” “The traitor!” she blazed out; and, recoiling, hurled the money in my face. It stung strangely. “You are wrong,” said I, in a low voice. “But as you will. Tell him, if you will, that Paul Grande, the traitor, waits for him at the lower ford. But if you do not tell him, be sure _he_ will not soon forgive you. And for the money, he shall keep it for your children—and you will be sorry to have unjustly accused me.” She laughed with bitter mockery, and turned away. “But I will tell him; that can do no harm,” she said. “I’ll tell him the traitor who loves him waits at the ford.” I withdrew into the wood, beyond all reason pained at the injustice. The unpleasant peasant woman was as good as her word, however; for in little more than the space of an hour I saw Father Fafard approaching. Plainly he had come hot upon the instant. “My dear, dear boy! Where have you been, and what suffered?” he cried, catching me hard by the two arms, and looking into my eyes. “It was Grûl saved me,” said I. Beyond earshot, deep in the wood, where no wind hindered the noon sun from warming a little open glade, I told my story briefly. “Paul,” said he, when I had finished, “my heart has now the first happiness it has known through all these dreadful months. But you must slip out of this doomed country without an hour’s delay. Quebec, of course! And then, when an end is made here, I will join you. Have you money for the journey?” I laughed softly. “My plans are not quite formed. I must see Yvonne. Will you fetch her to me?” He rose in anger—a little forced, I thought. “No!” said he. “Then, I beseech you, give her a message from me, that I may see her for a little this very day.” “Paul,” he cried passionately, “it is a sin to talk of it. She has pledged her troth. She is at peace. I will not have her disturbed.” “Does she love him?” I asked. “I—I suppose so. Or she will, doubtless,” he stammered. “Oh, doubtless!” said I. “And meanwhile, does she show readiness to carry out her promise? Does she listen kindly to her impatient lover—her anxious father?” “The Englishman has displeased her, for a time,” said he, “but that will pass. She knows the duty of obedience; she respects the plighted word. There can be but one ending; though you may succeed in making her very unhappy—for a time.” “I will make her very happy,” I said quietly, “so long as time endures for her and me.” He flashed round upon me with sharp scorn.