“Ah, I bethink me. Well, rest and eat, and then go to the house on the Missaguash where dwells the cousin. Ere long I will have less pleasant work for you.” The color ebbed from Gabriel’s face. He longed to inquire further; to ask if the rumor were true that in consequence of persistent refusal to take the oath of allegiance the Acadians were to be expelled from English soil, from the places of refuge still left them by the French after forcing them from their former homes. Poor, unhappy people; driven like sheep before the wolves! But discipline forbade anything but prompt and silent obedience. And, as an hour or two later, he swung at a gallop toward the home of Herbes and Marin, of whose precise locality he had been informed by a friendly Acadian, his high hopes of the morning were tinged with gloomy forebodings. One by one the French forts were falling into English hands, and in a few days Acadia would once more be an English province. Already the land over which he rode—called the Chignecto district—belonged no more to France. Across the bridge he thundered, and there in the midst of the meadows stood the rough cabin and outlying sheds inhabited by those he sought. Faster and faster flew the horse, conscious of his rider’s impatience, and Marin, lolling on a bench before the door, arose in mingled alarm and curiosity. To the women and children, crowding to the front at the sound of galloping hoofs, the young soldier was a splendid apparition as he sprang from his excited steed and greeted them bareheaded, the glory of the May sun in his ruffled blonde curls, and his eyes shining blue as the waters of far Chignecto Bay. Then of a sudden knowledge came to Marie. “Ah, the cousin!” she ejaculated; and then could say no more. How could she tell him? “Yes,” he cried, “I am Gabriel. Where is Margot?” “Ah, _la pauvre petite_! Who knows?” And the kind-hearted woman threw her apron over her head and burst into loud sobs, in which she was joined by Julie, the wife of Marin. Frantic as he was with anxiety, Gabriel could extract nothing coherent from either the women or Marin, the latter a stupid fellow at best, with just enough brains to be suspicious and obstinate; but fortunately Louis Herbes arrived on the scene, and from him the sad tale was forthcoming. “Nevertheless he was no Indian,” concluded Louis shrewdly, glancing over his shoulder and speaking in a whisper; “it was _M. l’Abbé_ himself.” “How knowest thou that?” growled Marin. “I do know it,” asserted Herbes with quiet confidence. “There were some who also knew and told. I have spoken aloud and sorely of the loss of our Margot.” “Yes, _bon ami_,” sneered Marin. “Now tell it all. Give _le bon prêtre_ into the hands of the heretics.”