The empty house seemed to whisper of fear and grief from every corner. She turned away and ran toward the landing, her heart chilled with a sudden apprehension that she might be too late. Before she was clear of the bushes, however, she stopped with a cry. A man who seemed to have risen out of the ground stood right in her path. He was of a sturdy figure, somewhat short, and clad in dull-coloured homespun of peasant fashion. At sight of her beauty and her alarm his woollen cap was snatched from his head and his cunning face took on the utmost deference. “Have no fear of me, mademoiselle,—Mademoiselle de Lamourie, if I may hazard a guess from your beauty,” said he smoothly. “It is I who am in peril, lest you should reveal me to my enemies.” “Who are you, monsieur?” she asked, recovering her self-possession and fretting to be gone. “A spy,” he whispered, “in the pay of the King of France, who must know, to avenge them later, the wrongs of his people here in Acadie. I have thrown myself on your mercy, that I might ask you if the families who have found favour with the English will remain here after this work is done, or be taken elsewhere. I pray you inform me.” “Believe me, I do not know their plans, monsieur,” answered Yvonne. “And I beg you to let me pass, for my haste is desperate.” “Let me escort you to the edge of the bush, then, mademoiselle,” said he courteously, stepping from the path. “And not to delay you, I will question you as we go, if you will permit. Is the Englishman, Monsieur George Anderson, still here?” “He is, monsieur. But now leave me, I entreat you.” She was wild with fear lest the stranger’s presence should frustrate her design. The man smiled. “I dare go no farther with you than the field edge, mademoiselle,” said he regretfully. “To be caught would mean”—and he put his hand to his throat with ghastly suggestion. Relieved from this anxiety, Yvonne paused when she reached the open. “I must ask you a question in turn, monsieur,” said she. “Have you chanced to learn on which of the two ships Captain de Mer and Captain Grande were placed?” “I have been so fortunate,” replied the stranger, and the triumph in his thought found no expression in his deferential tone or deep-set eyes. Here was the point he had been studying to approach. Here was a chance to worst a foe and win favour from the still powerful, though far-distant, Black Abbé. He paused, and Yvonne had scarce breath to cry “Which?” “They are in the ship this way,” he said calmly. “The one still at anchor.” “Thank you, monsieur!” she cried, with a passion in the simple words; and was straightway off across the red-lit snow, her cloak streaming out behind her. “The beauty!” said the man to himself, lurking in the bushes to follow her with his eyes. “Pity to lie to her. But she’s leaving—and that stabs Anderson; and she’s going on the wrong ship—and that stabs Grande. Both at a stroke. Not bad for a day like this.”