Again the wife of Marin laughed. So loudly did she laugh that the general, pacing the vicarage garden, paused at the open window to acquaint himself with the cause of her mirth. “It is the brave _garçon_, my general. He knows nothing. Let him but arrange for the marriage, and I, even I, Julie, will answer for the maiden.” Then, on being questioned by Winslow, she went over her tale once more, and the two gossips would have promptly settled the whole affair out of hand had not one of the principals interposed. “Let me but see her once—only once—first,” implored Gabriel. The general, promptly won over to the side of Julie, hesitated, in such haste was he for the pleasurable excitement of a wedding; but finally it was resolved that the young lover should go the following morning to Julie’s little cabin, and there win his fair young bride for himself. As Julie drew on her hood preparatory to departure, Winslow inquired of her how it fared with the women, remarking that she herself seemed to bear her fate with much cheer. “For the others—well, while many lament, all do not. For myself I care not. I weary of the French rule and the fighting and wandering and the savage Indians. Anywhere I go willingly where there is peace, and the soil is fruitful—_v’ là tout!_” So she went; and the early sun was glistening on meadows yet dewy when Gabriel, forgetful for the moment of the sorrows around him and his own distasteful duties, strode along the same dusty road he had traversed the previous day, arriving in the course of an hour or so at the small hut inhabited by the Marins. Julie, hastening forth to milk, greeted him with a broad smile, and waved to him to enter. Enter he did, and in a second, neither knew how, he held Margot close to his heart. It was long before a word was spoken. It was enough that they were together; and when at length Gabriel found voice, it was at first only for expressions of pity and endearment for the frail little creature who seemed lost within his large embrace. [Illustration: “They sat down side by side . . . before the empty hearth.”] “But I am not so frail, _mon cousin_,” she protested. “I can work and endure, ah, thou knowest not how much!” “But never again, _chérie_!” was Gabriel’s reply; and grown strangely and suddenly bold, he added: “and remember, it must be ‘_mon cousin_’ no longer, for from this very day there shall be an end of ‘_cousin_’—it will be ‘wife’ and ‘husband.’ Hearest thou?” Yes, Margot heard, but had nothing to say. Finally she remarked in a low voice: “I would be baptized into thy faith first.” “What?” cried Gabriel joyfully. “Is that really so, my Margot? What glad news! Now is all indeed well with us! There is a chaplain at Fort Edward; he will baptize thee, and marry us.”