Produced by Al Haines [Frontispiece: On a block just inside the door sat Marc.] The Forge in the Forest Being _The Narrative of the Acadian Ranger, Jean de Mer, Seigneur de Briart; and how he crossed the Black Abbe; and of his Adventures in a Strange Fellowship_ By Charles G. D. Roberts Lamson, Wolffe and Company Boston, New York and London William Briggs, Toronto MDCCCXCVI Copyright, 1896, By Lamson, Wolffe and Company. _All rights reserved_ Norwood Press J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U.S.A. To George E. Fenety, Esq. This Story of a Province among whose Honoured Sons he is not least distinguished is dedicated with esteem and affection [Illustration: Map of Peninsula of Acadie (Nova Scotia)] Contents _Part I.--Marc_ A Foreword Chapter I. The Capture at the Forge II. The Black Abbe III. Tamin's Little Stratagem IV. The Governor's Signature V. In the Run of the Seas VI. Grul VII. The Commander is Embarrassed VIII. The Black Abbe Comes to Dinner IX. The Abbe Strikes Again X. A Bit of White Petticoat XI. I Fall a Willing Captive _Part II.--Mizpah_ XII. In a Strange Fellowship XIII. My Comrade XIV. My Comrade Shoots Excellently Well XV. Grul's Hour XVI. I Cool My Adversaries' Courage XVII. A Night in the Deep XVIII. The _Osprey_, of Plymouth XIX. The Camp by Canseau Strait XX. The Fellowship Dissolved XXI. The Fight at Grand Pre XXII. The Black Abbe Strikes in the Dark XXIII. The Rendezvous at the Forge Part I Marc The Forge in the Forest A Foreword Where the Five Rivers flow down to meet the swinging of the Minas tides, and the Great Cape of Blomidon bars out the storm and the fog, lies half a county of rich meadow-lands and long-arcaded orchards. It is a deep-bosomed land, a land of fat cattle, of well-filled barns, of ample cheeses and strong cider; and a well-conditioned folk inhabit it. But behind this countenance of gladness and peace broods the memory of a vanished people. These massive dykes, whereon twice daily the huge tide beats in vain, were built by hands not suffered to possess the fruits of their labour. These comfortable fields have been scorched with the ruin of burning homes, drenched with the tears of women hurried into exile. These orchard lanes, appropriate to the laughter of children or the silences of lovers, have rung with battle and run deep with blood. Though the race whose bane he was has gone, still stalks the sinister shadow of the Black Abbe.