With a cry of mingled grief and pleasure she ran forward. Here was one who had never failed in his gentle consideration, in his mild guidance, his loving reproof. At once she fell under the spell of his presence. “Oh, my good father, save me!” she begged.
He looked down at her with a loving smile. “I ought not to have a word to say to you, little runaway; yet must we forgive when forgiveness is sought, and you are my spiritual child.”
Alaine made no response, but clung to him. The old man nodded assurance as she mutely searched his face. “Be not troubled, my child. You are safe. And when did Father Bisset ever do you a wrong? Come, you are weary. M. Dupont has provided a good supper for us. Dry your eyes, my daughter, and join us at table. One may as well partake of good things when they are set before him.”
Alaine suffered herself to be led to the table, and made a light supper, while her two companions kept up a race of trivial talk, full of lively anecdote, by which the girl was entertained in spite of herself. They sat a long time at table, and when he arose François said, “Marie shall attend you whenever you wish to go to your room; meanwhile, I will leave you to the company of Father Bisset, who, I doubt not, will be more agreeable to you than myself. Pleasant dreams, Mademoiselle Alaine. Before we part for the night, I drink to our future.” He took up a cup of wine and tossed it off, then, with a bow and a good-night, left them.
Father Bisset sat silently, leaning one arm on the table, and looked long and earnestly at the sad face before him. After a time he came over and drew a seat close to her side. “My daughter,” he said, “you can trust Jacques Bisset. He is old, he is weak in body, and he has not a great mind, but he can endure, he can suffer; he can perhaps use a little strategy.” He bent nearer and whispered, “Do not seem surprised; he is also Protestant, this old man. Hush! we must dissemble.” Then louder: “Yes, my child, it seems good to have you again under my guidance.” Again his voice dropped. “This François Dupont,”—he glanced cautiously around,—“he believes me to be still a papist; he had not heard otherwise, it seems, and, as it happened, he was the first to meet me as I landed in New York a day or two ago. ‘Ho, Father Bisset,’ he cried, ‘you have come to the wrong port. If, as I suppose, you are come on a mission to this wild land, you should have been better informed. They are all loud-mouthed for the Protestant William and Mary, and you’ll stand a poor showing here. I would advise you to get out of the colony as soon as possible. I have it,’ he cried, after a moment’s thought, ‘I will direct you to a safe retreat.’ ‘Thanks, monsieur,’ I answered, ‘I think I can find my way.’ ‘At all events,’ he said, ‘I will send some one to guide you to a fair lodging.’ A stranger and acquainted with little Dutch and no English, I was not averse to accepting the offer, and I have not a great headpiece, my child, so I followed my guide, who brought me to a lonely spot by a running river and bade me step aboard a little boat that I might be ferried across stream. Ferried I was, but no farther than to mid-stream, when I was seized bodily and brought aboard this ship.”
He gave a little low chuckle. “I have not protested as yet, for I am well fed and comfortably lodged, and my religious beliefs have not been questioned. I do not announce them, but allow them to be taken for granted. So, my child, let us be watchful and wary and we shall yet find that this adventure will work to our benefit. I am supposed to take you under my instruction, and I do not object.” Again the familiar chuckle rejoiced Alaine’s heart. “We will outwit François Dupont, and he will be none the wiser of our intent.”
Alaine listened eagerly to all this, and her spirits rose as the genial old priest went on: “François warned me, just after we set sail, that I should see you, and I was prepared, therefore I showed no surprise. He is not a religious enthusiast, and will not notice what my devotions may be. It will not harm any one if I say my Pater Noster in Latin, and the good God will hear it just the same. Therefore observe me without disapproval if you can. The end sometimes justifies the means, and I pray I may be forgiven if I use covert means for your sake as well as my own. ‘Wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove,’ that is what one should be, and to wisdom we must add patience.”
“You will tell me some day of how you made your escape from France, dear Father Bisset? There is much that I wish to hear.”
“You shall hear it at some convenient time. Meanwhile, we must be careful of our conversation; there are sharp ears about,” he added, significantly.
Alaine looked up quickly and saw the dark face of Marie looking at her from a dim corner. She started, for it brought to mind the fact that she was again a prisoner, and although seemingly free, the blue waters encircling her were safer bonds than fetters of steel.