Bearing these things in mind, Cornwallis bent all his energies to winning over the Micmac lambs, and after a long pow-wow, the pipe of peace was again smoked and “Major” Cope, as he called himself, swore for his tribe allegiance to the English government. Laden with gifts and escorted by the governor in person, they forsook their camp the following afternoon and embarked on a small schooner, manned by an English crew which outnumbered the little band of savages. With them went Gabriel. Four weeks later Prévost wrote to the French minister: “Last month the savages took eighteen English scalps, and M. Le Loutre was obliged to pay them eighteen hundred _livres_, Acadian money, which I have reimbursed him.” And the _gran’-père_ and Margot, where were they? Jean Jacques, with the subtlety of his race, did not go direct to Annapolis. He was aware that many of the Acadians had been induced by Le Loutre to leave the river valley and had betaken themselves to the larger settlement of Beaubassin; and later rumors had reached him that the English were about to lay claim to their own and send a small force under Lawrence—destined to be governor of the province—to quell the constant disaffection created by the French troops at Beauséjour, across the Missaguash. It was to Beaubassin, then, that the Micmac turned his steps. He arrived to find a scene of wild terror; that which has been termed the first expulsion of the Acadians was in full progress. It was evening, and the western sky was dark with clouds, but as Jean Jacques, at the rapid Indian dog-trot, stole swiftly toward the settlement, he observed to himself that the villagers would have scant need of their tallow dips that night. In huddled groups—the women and children wailing, the men almost equally demoralized—the unfortunate Acadians watched the destruction of their homes; not only so, but what was worse to the many devout among them, the same devouring flames consuming their church. And the moving spirit of this tragic scene was their own _abbé_—he whom they had revered and wholly feared. The imposing figure of Le Loutre stood out in bold relief against the blazing edifice. Crucifix held aloft, he incited his Micmacs, genuine and spurious alike, to the dreadful deed. Jean Jacques mingled unremarked with his tribe. “It is for the good of your souls, my people!” thundered the enthusiast. “You refused to obey the gentle voice of the true church and follow where she leads. Now your salvation must be wrought for you; to live at ease under the protection of heretics will bring damnation on your souls.” “Charlot, what does the priest to the palefaces?” At the sound of his own name the Acadian, disguised in paint and feathers, started violently, but peering into the face of Jean Jacques his fears were quieted. “’Tis for the good of their souls,” he repeated, as a sullen boy reciting a lesson.