“No, little one,” replied Louis kindly; “but, I learned that one Gabriel, with another name that cracks the jaws even to think of, was much spoken of during the attack by reason of his valor, and that he fought well. Rather he than I,” he concluded with a grimace. Margot fell back and said no more. She had all for which she had dared to hope; again she must wait, it was true, but this time not wholly uncheered. The sun sank and the moon rose and the wearied household was wrapped in slumber, all but Margot, who leaned from the window of the shedroom she occupied apart from the common sleeping apartment, which according to Acadian custom also served for a kitchen. She had tried to sleep and had failed. Secure in the pardon granted them by the English, heedless of the future, the Acadians were once more collected under their own rooftrees, and as Margot’s eyes roamed along the banks of the Missaguash they rested with a sense of sympathetic peace upon the little farmhouses containing so many re-united families. Yet it was strange how constantly on this night of apparent peace her mind reverted to the relentless priest who had caused herself and others so much misery. Involuntarily her mind strayed backward to the days when they had all hung on every glance of that strong, imperious man, whose word was law to a weak and vacillating people, and who represented to the simple villagers salvation here and hereafter. Now, in his hour of defeat, how would it be? His influence had already waned, she thought. Her window was raised only a few feet from the ground and, unseen by her, a figure came gliding along in the shadow of the wide eaves. Another moment and her quick ear had caught the sound of hushed steps, but before the flashing thought had had time to concentrate in the cry, “Gabriel!” a grasp of iron was laid upon her shoulder and a hand crushed down upon her mouth. There was a hideous interval before a word was spoken, after her terrified eyes had taken in the fact that she was in the clutches of one of the dreaded Micmacs. Then, was it with increased horror or with relief that she recognized the voice which at last spoke? “Margot! maiden!” The whisper was harsh. “It is thy priest and father in God who commands thy service.” The shock temporarily deprived the girl of power to reply, but finding that she made neither struggle nor outcry, Le Loutre, for it was indeed he, released her. This man was her enemy, so ran her swift thought; he had robbed her of all that made life dear. Now Margot, though gentle in heart and deed, was human and intolerant, as the young usually are. Forgiveness of cruel wrong could only come through prayer and striving. She remembered the destroyed and abandoned home, made desolate by this man; the beloved _gran’-père_, dead from exposure and want; the beloved cousin, an outcast and a wanderer; and it was this man who had done it.