“M. Girard, there is a lad here, half Acadian, half British, know you aught of him?” “Gabriel—ah, the hard name! I cannot call it.” “Yet did the name and he that originally bore it sail once with your own conquering William from the land of your birth. Champernowne—it is a Norman name—and you, you yourself come from _la belle Normandie_, is it not so, _M. le Curé_?” “It is true, _monsieur_. But this boy, I have heard of him from the _curé_ at Port Royal. He is a good boy, though, alas, no longer of our faith.” “He is to be trusted?” “So I have been assured, _monsieur_.” Meanwhile another scene was being enacted under the eastern rampart. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Gabriel, I baptize thee.” The brief ceremony was at an end, and the few witnesses departed. Feeling somehow encouraged by this open profession of his inward convictions to thread the difficult maze that lay before him, Gabriel joined the New England minister at his frugal meal, and then at his advice betook himself to an upper chamber to rest his weary body. But rest to aching heart and tired brain would not come. In whom should he confide? What should he do? Even his knowledge of the English tongue was limited, though it fitted readily to his own, and he felt that he would soon be master of it. Of but one thing was he certain; come what would, he must now cast in his lot with his father’s race. There were ways by which he could earn his bread—he, active and vigorous and accustomed to labor. And the colonists, they would need defenders; he could handle a musket with the best, and endure long marches. Then, with a groan he turned his face to the wall. Margot—the grandfather! Like a knife turning in his heart the harrowing dread would not be stilled. Nothing could be done, no revelation of intended treachery made, until these two were beyond the reach of Le Loutre and his terrible threats. And the days would slip past as the hours were slipping now. Could, would, the English governor help them? Then slowly, like swallows sailing circlewise ever nearer and nearer their resting place, his revolving thoughts settled down upon their nest. Yes, there was one hope. He sprang from the bed and was out of the house in less time than it takes to write the words. “M. Girard, M. Girard,” he said to himself as he hastened along. But when he arrived at the priest’s lodging, he was informed that _M. le Curé_ had started two hours before for Cobequid. The woman of the house, mother herself of stalwart sons, felt her heart stir in pity for this splendid-looking youth, with the “air noble” and the sad face. She was a former parishioner of M. Girard, an Acadian come hither from Cobequid. “But see,” she said, following him out of the door, “_M. le Curé_ was to tarry awhile at the Indian camp. Maybe he is still there.”