“If he is alive? that I cannot tell thee, maiden. One last chance have I given the would-be renegade lest he become ere his time an outcast. How he hath borne himself, I as yet know not.” But M. Girard laid his hand kindly on the bowed dark head. “My daughter, it is the wish of _M. l’Abbé_ that thou shouldst seek the French shore. Louis Herbes, thy neighbor, crosses even now with his wife; it would be well for thee to go with these kind friends.” “And may I not pray one little hour beside the grave of him who was all of father and mother I ever knew?” said Margot in stifled tones. Le Loutre shrugged his shoulders; then crossed himself piously. “As thou wilt, daughter. One little quarter of an hour will I give thee.” He linked his arm in that of the curé and walked away with him. Scarcely had the priestly pair disappeared than the bushes at Margot’s side rustled and Jean Jacques crept into view. Seizing her wrist in his sinewy fingers he led her toward the shore, close to which was now anchoring the English ship. “The Micmac will find thee a refuge, maiden,” he said. “Follow Jean Jacques, and all will be well.” But the timid Acadian girl shrank from the Indian. “To go among those redcoats—and alone, Jean Jacques? Oh, I cannot.” “Did not Jean Jacques swear to Wild Deer that he would save his kinswoman from the cruel priest?” said the Indian with stoicism, “and will he not do it even with the strength of his arm? Neither do the white braves harm women.” “Yes—no—oh, I know not,” faltered Margot; “oh, leave me, Jean Jacques! Yet tell me first, where is Gabriel?” The Indian grunted. “The Great Spirit knows, not I. But, maiden, while we waste words the priest comes, and Jean Jacques is no longer of his faith; the faith of the Micmac is the faith of the Wild Deer. Wilt thou come, or no?” Margot started. “Then Gabriel is in truth a heretic!” Whilst she hesitated, Jean Jacques, who was in no mood for delay, led her deeper into the woods. Now Margot, though, as we know, possessed of that kind of courage which will bravely choose and do the right, and even be physically brave for those she loved, was naturally timid, and now she was worn and exhausted and scarcely mistress of herself. Her inborn terror of Indians got the upper hand, and she uttered a piercing shriek, promptly stifled by the Micmac’s hand upon her mouth. Then he suddenly released her. “Maiden,” he said, “Jean Jacques can do no more. Thou wilt not seek safety? So be it then. The priests come—Jean Jacques goes.” The girl made a great effort, and though still very pale, held out her hand with a smile to the Indian. “Forgive me, Jean Jacques,” she said in tones which would have won forgiveness anywhere; “my heart is sick, I know not what I do. Take me whither thou wilt—whither Wild Deer wills.”