How Marc might have retorted upon me, I know not; for at the moment, though it yet wanted much of noon, the fantastic figure of the madman--if he were a madman--sped into the Forge. He stopped abruptly before us and scrutinized us for some few seconds in utter silence, his eyes glittering and piercing like sword points. His long white hair and beard were disordered with haste, the flowers and feathers in his pointed cap were for the most part broken, even as when we had last seen him, and his gaudy mantle was somewhat befouled with river mud. Yet such power was there in his look and in his gesture, that when he stretched out his little white staff toward me and said "Come," I had much ado to keep from obeying him without question. Yet this I would not permit myself, as was natural. "Whither?" I questioned. "And for what purpose?" By this time he was out at the door, but he stopped. Giving me a glance of scorn he turned to Marc, and stretched out his staff. "Come," he said. And in a breath he was gone, springing with incredible swiftness and smoothness through the underbrush. "We must follow, Father!" cried Marc; and in the same instant was away. For my own part, it was sorely against me to be led by the nose, and thus blindly, by the madman--whom I now declared certainly to be mad. But Marc had gone, so I had no choice, as I conceived it, but to stand by the lad. I went too. And seeing that I had to do it, I did it well, and presently overtook them. "What is this folly?" I asked angrily, panting a little, I confess. But Marc signed to me to be silent. I obeyed, though with ill enough grace, and ran on till my mouth was like a board, my tongue like wool. Then the grim light of the forest whitened suddenly before us, and our guide stopped. Instinctively we imitated his motions, as he stole forward and peered through a screen of leafage. We were on a bank overlooking the Canard. A little below, and paddling swiftly towards the river-mouth, were two canoes manned with the Abbe's Micmacs. In the bottom of one canoe lay a little fair-haired boy, bound. "My God!" cried Marc, under his breath, "'tis the child! 'tis little Philip Hanford." Grul turned his wild eyes upon us. "The power of the dog!" he muttered, "the power of the dog!" "We must get a canoe and follow them!" exclaimed Marc, in great agitation, turning to go, and looking at me with passionate appeal. But before I could speak, to assure him of my aid and support, Grul interfered. "Wait!" he said, with meaning emphasis, thrusting his little staff almost in the lad's face. "Come!" and he started up along the river bank, going swiftly but with noiseless caution. I expected Marc to demur, but not so. He evidently had a childlike faith in this fantastic being. He followed without a protest. Needless to say, I followed also. But all this mystery, and this blind obedience, and this lordly lack of explanation, were little to my liking.