The old man’s trembling hand smoothed her hair; he could not speak yet. “_Mon gran’-père_, Margot,” Gabriel said bravely, “I have that to tell you which may grieve your hearts; but my mind is made up. I have, indeed, changed since we parted. I am no longer a Christian as your church holds such.” “Your church!” This could mean but one thing—their Gabriel was then, in truth, a heretic! But the low-breathed “Helas, _mon fils_,” which escaped the old man was not echoed by his granddaughter. She raised her head and looked at her cousin, who had sprung to his feet and was pacing the floor like a young lion. “No,” he cried. “If to do such in the name of the Father and the gentle mother of a gentle Saviour is to be a Christian, then am I none! If to be a missionary of the church is to spur poor savages on to be more cruel, more treacherous, than in their ignorance they were, then heaven grant that no holy church may ever receive them! If to be false to every given vow, to strike the enemy in the back, to hate even as do the devils in hell, is to be a Christian, then no Christian am I!” He returned to the fireside, and sinking upon the high-backed settle, relapsed into reverie so profound as to become oblivious of his surroundings. “And if thou dost proclaim thyself a heretic, _mon fils_,” observed Grétin at length fearfully, “what is to become of us?” “Alas, at best what can I do for you, honored _gran’-père_? Is not even now that vindictive priest on my track? And may it not be that he may yet take my life because I will not aid him in his treacherous plot? I have escaped him once, but only by the aid of Jean Jacques, and now that gold has come from France, Jean Jacques will love French crowns better than my life.” “_M. l’Abbé_ never takes lives, my son,” said the old man rebukingly. “And why not, _mon gran’-père_? May it not have been because none dared oppose him?” Grétin sighed heavily, but made no reply, and Gabriel continued: “All here are his tools, the Acadians from fear, the Indians for gold. I am no tool, and for that, if needs be, I must suffer. But you—ah, my beloved and dear!” He sank impulsively upon his knees, and throwing his arm around his cousin and leaning his head on his grandsire’s knees, yielded himself to an abandonment of grief. Finally Margot spoke, quietly and decisively. “Dear Gabriel, thou canst indeed do nothing for us and thou art in peril here. Thou must make thy way with all speed to thy friend, the New England _prêtre_; he will succor and aid thee. Thou art like the Huguenots and the Puritans; thou wilt have to suffer for conscience’ sake.” She smiled bravely, but her lips trembled. “But you,” Gabriel groaned, “you!”