Thus they sang, as if exulting in the defeat of an enemy. The wife of Marin, almost as wild as the men, had loaded herself down with part of her husband’s burden, and her voice rang shrill above the tumult in response to Marie’s vociferous queries: “Beauséjour has fallen, I tell thee. And the English have pardoned our men because they said they but fought under compulsion. All is well.” “But whence came this, and this?” persisted the more practical Marie, pointing to the motley collection of food, wearing apparel, wines, and even furniture, with which the ground was now littered. Questions for long brought no coherent reply, and it was not until late in the afternoon, their comrades having scattered in search of their respective families, that either Herbes or Marin was able to give a clear account of all that had happened. It was significant of the religious dependence and docility of the Acadian nature that one of the first questions asked and answered should be concerning the fate of Le Loutre. At the query the two men, who since their vain trip to Quebec had wavered somewhat in their allegiance to the tyrannical _abbé_, shrugged their shoulders and spread their hands as those who knew nothing. “But, Louis,” Marie cried, “it is important that we know, for without him are we not but lost sheep in the wilderness?” “As to that, good wife, I cannot tell thee,” answered Louis. “When we left that villainous fort _M. l’Abbé_ was nowhere to be seen. Depend on it, he was with the commandant. All was hurry and confusion from the moment the shell fell upon the officers’ table while they sat at meat, killing six of them, yes, six!” Here he crossed himself, shuddering, and Marin took up the tale: “Yes, and the _bon Dieu_ alone knows how great was the wonder of the English, who expected to fight many more days, when the white flag flew from the ramparts. _M. l’Abbé_ I beheld everywhere then. He ran from one to the other, pleading that the flag of the coward, for so our brave _abbé_ called it, be taken in. Well, we Acadians know that he hath the gift of speech, but now it was in vain. The French were glad to cease this foolish killing of men for naught, glad even as we were. So presently it was arranged that they should march out with the honors of war,—whatever honor there be in slaying and quarreling,—and proceed at once to Louisbourg. Then the officers fell to drinking and plundering ere they departed, and we gathered up what little we could lay hands on, and so took leave with our pardon. Of the priest I saw no more. That is all that has happened.” Margot, who during this recital had been leaning forward with clasped hands, at last ventured timidly, addressing Louis Herbes: “And _mon cousin_; of him you saw nothing?”