The poor boy was passing through that bitterest trial of all, experiencing what to all martyrs is worse than any fiery stake, the helpless, incomparable anguish of bringing suffering on those dearer to him than life. What if in the saving of his own soul alive he should have to trample over the bodies of the beloved? Might not his course be the very acme of self-seeking? What recompense could the martyr’s crown confer for this mortal agony of vicarious suffering? But Margot’s steady, quiet voice went on; her soft touch was on his head. Timid she might be, but ah, brave, brave too! “He will not hurt us, the _abbé_,” she said. “Do not fear, my cousin. If thou dost stay with us, thou wilt have to act a lie every day. Even should he refrain from pressing thee into his schemes, he will watch thee, and not one single ordinance of our church wilt thou be permitted to elude. He can be very hard, our _abbé_. No, dear Gabriel, vain is it to strive to serve two masters; if of our faith, thou must remain here and profess it; if of the other, thou must go.” She averted her head and further speech failed her. At that moment there was a violent knocking on the door. Gabriel was on his feet at once, alert, resolute once more. “I knew he would track me,” he said, “but I had hoped not to be found here, and neither will I. Adieu, _mon gran’-père_. God in very truth keep you! Margot, the small door into the cowpen.” At a word from the girl, Grétin crept into his covered bed in the wall, while she and Gabriel slipped noiselessly away through a back entrance. “Let us go with thee, dear cousin,” implored Margot, as they paused for an instant among the cows, her fears for him making her once more timid. “_Ma chérie_, no! Ah, my best beloved!” He clasped her to his breast, kissed her passionately, as never before, on brow, cheek, and lips, and was gone. On the house door the knocking continued, and the _gran’-père’s_ voice was heard in the accents of one aroused from sleep. Margot, hastily composing her features and trusting that the traces of tears would not be visible in the light of the dying fire, re-entered the kitchen and, after much fumbling and delay, opened the door. Without stood Le Loutre, accompanied as usual by his “lambs.” Without deigning to address her, he snatched a torch from one of the Indians and, striding into the small house, explored every corner. Even the cowpen was not left unsearched. On pretense of arranging the bed-covering, Margot bent over her grandfather. “Delay him if you can,” she breathed; “every moment is precious.” But the priest was already at her side. “Where is the malicious heretic, at last avowed?” he thundered.