I looked across at Mizpah, then made up my mind to speak plainly. If I knew anything at all of human nature, this boy was to be trusted. "We are going to Ile Royale," said I, "to look for a little boy whom some of your tribe have cruelly carried off." His face became the very picture of shame and grief. He looked first at one of us, then the other; and presently dropped his head upon his breast. "Why, what is the matter, Xavier?" I asked. He had said his name was Xavier. "I know," he answered, in a low voice. "It was some of my own people did it." "_What_ do you know? Tell us, oh, tell us everything! Oh, we helped you! You will surely help us find him!" pleaded Mizpah, breathlessly. "By all the blessed saints," he cried, with an earnestness that I felt to be sincere, "I will try to help you. I will risk anything. I will disobey the Abbe. I will--" "Where _is_ the child? Do you know that?" I interrupted. "Yes, truly," he replied. "They have taken him north to Gaspe, and to the St. Lawrence. My uncle, Etienne le Batard, was in canoe that brought him to mouth of the Pictook. Then other canoe took him north, where a French family will keep him. The Abbe says he shall grow up a monk. But he is not starved or beaten, I swear truly." "How do you know all this?" I asked, looking at him piercingly. But his eye was clear and met mine right honestly. "My uncle came to Malpic straight," said he, "where the warriors had a council. Then I was sent with word to my father, Big Etienne, who is on the Shubenacadie." "What word?" I asked. But the boy shook his head. "It does not touch the little boy. It does not touch my kind friends. I may not tell it," he said, with a brave dignity. I loved him for this, and trusted him the more. "This lad's tongue and heart are true," said I, looking at Mizpah. "We may trust him." "I know it!" said she. Whereupon he reached out, grasped a hand of each, and kissed them with a freedom of emotion which I have seldom seen in the full blood Indian. "You may trust me," he said, in a low voice, being by this something wearied. "You give me my life. And I will help you find your child." And the manner of his speech, as if he considered the child _our_ child, though it was but accident, stirred me sweetly at the heart,--and I durst not trust myself to meet Mizpah's eyes. Thus it came about that, after all, we crossed not the narrow strait, nor set foot in Ile Royale. But when, three days later, I judged our patient sufficiently recovered, we set our faces again toward the Shubenacadie. The journey was exceeding slow, but to me very far from tedious, for in rain or shine, or dark or bright, the light shone on me of my mistress's face. And at last, after many days of toilsome wandering, we struck the head waters of the Shubenacadie.