“And this task I cannot and will not fulfill,” concluded Gabriel firmly; “then should I be traitor indeed.” M. Girard’s face had grown very sad. The conduct of Le Loutre had caused him and many another gentle-hearted priest much sorrow. Yet he was the superior; his authority could not be questioned. He remained silent for a while; then spoke, not without hesitation. “My son,” he said, “there is a way, but even that way is not without difficulties. Thy cousin—Margot—our Acadian youth are often householders at thine age. Yes, I know, those of English blood are more backward in such matters, but there must be true affection betwixt you, and for thy wife she is altogether suitable. Thus thou couldst protect her and the _gran’-père_ also. The saints forbid that I should encourage a union betwixt a heretic and a daughter of the church were there any other way, and did I not hope much from her influence. Wives have brought erring husbands back to the true fold ere now, and thou art scarce experienced enough to have embraced for reasons that will endure another faith. It was resentment, not conviction, that led thee astray. “Among the Acadians protected by the fort the followers of the Holy Catholic Church dwell in peace, ministered to by priests who have taken the oath of allegiance to the English king. There, with Margot for thy wife, thou wilt return to the true faith.” The good old priest, pleased with the future his imagination had created, rambled on. But after the first Gabriel hardly heard him. _Margot his wife!_ The hot blood flamed to cheek and brow, then the flash faded, leaving him paler than before. Who was it that dared thus to handle the sweet familiar affection, from whose leaves the delicate bud, destined in the fullness of time to expand into the radiant flower of a strong man’s love, peeped forth so timidly that he himself had not yet ventured to do more than glance at it and then avert his eyes? When had he first known that those cool, green leaves held for him such a pearl of price? It was at his last parting from Margot, when forced to flee and leave those so helpless and so dear to the mercy of Le Loutre. The remembrance of this parting had never left him, despite danger, suffering, dread, not for one little hour. But that any one should speak of that of which he had never yet spoken to himself! Gradually, however, the sense of shock, of desecration, faded; and when after a long and patient waiting M. Girard addressed him almost in the very words once used by the _abbé_, but with very different intention, his answer this time was prompt and decisive. “_Mon fils_, art thou boy or man?” “I am a man, _mon père_.” “Well, think on what I have said.” The priest gathered up his skirts and arose. “But, Margot, _mon père_? Her desires may be quite other——”