With a word of thanks Gabriel hastened away. Yet back to the Indian camp, that nest of traitors. There was, however, no help for it. In any case he would have to return to the camp at nightfall, for he was closely watched, and his plans were not yet ripe for defying his dusky guardians, two or three of whom on the morrow expected to be conducted within the walls of Halifax. To obtain private speech with the _curé_ would no doubt be difficult, but it must be done. Fortune favored him. As he skirted the low hills to the eastward of the camp, watching his opportunity, he beheld a man in priestly garb, escorted by some Cobequid Acadians, who had voluntarily visited Halifax to take the new oath of allegiance, making his way across the levels in the direction of the forest. Girard’s adieu to Le Loutre’s “lambs” was, then, made. Weary and spent as he was, Gabriel put forth his last remaining strength and ran swiftly forward to intercept the party. He accomplished his object, and standing respectfully before the priest returned his gentle greeting. “And who art thou, my son?” “My name, _mon père_, is Gabriel, grandson of Pierre Grétin, habitan of Port Royal.” A long-drawn “Ah!” escaped M. Girard’s lips. Then taking the boy by the arm he led him out of earshot, and seating himself on a small hillock, said kindly: “Rest, my son. The sun is yet some hours high, and thou art weary, and hast a tale to tell.” “Oh, _mon père_!” cried Gabriel, then stopped, unable to proceed. This son of a mixed race could be steadfast as well as brave, but that intense vitality which sends the warm life-blood coursing through the veins like a torrent instead of as a calm and sluggish stream, even while acting as a spur to noble endeavor and keeping the heart forever young, exacts also its penalties. Now that the moment had arrived on which all his hopes hung, Gabriel was past speech. He lay face downward on the short turf, struggling with a burst of passionate tears that would not be repressed. “Weep, my son, weep,” said the kind old man, laying his hand on the fair head, “thou hast endured much, and thou art but a lad. Moreover, thou hast this day solemnly abjured thy mother’s faith. I reproach thee not, but for a youth such as thou, thou didst take upon thyself a grave responsibility.” But Gabriel was pulling himself together, and presently he sat up and shook the curls back from his eyes. “_Mon père_,” he said, still clinging to the old loved title familiar to him from earliest childhood, “that I know; I considered long; and forget not that the faith to which I have turned was the faith of my father. But it is not of myself I would speak, it is of those dearer to me than life.” Then briefly he narrated the events that had occurred, his forced abandonment of his grandfather and cousin, their desolate and helpless condition, and the _abbé’s_ threats should he fail in the task demanded of him.