No! A slipper! See that it is administered. And light songs, such as we heard but now, are scarcely seemly on a young one's lips. She should learn graver measures.
[In groups of twos and threes the Puritans solemnly exeunt, left, Bradford marching ahead. Fawnfoot, with agile grace, disappears into background, dancing with her own shadow as she goes. Philippe and Goody Gurton are left alone. Philippe bends over the ducking-chair, and with his knife cuts the thongs which bind Goody Gurton, the while he talks, half-tenderly, half-gaily, for the first time allowing a hint of accent to creep into his speech.
PHILIPPE.
They do not even stop to unbind thee! It is a strange thing, this witchcraft, that so turns the head!
GOODY GURTON.
You do for me what others do not do—you whom I have scarcely seen before!
PHILIPPE.
A good deed sown is ofttimes a good deed reaped. So say they in la belle France, and my tongue loves the words. 'Twas long ago that you did a kindness for me when my father lay ill of a fever; but—I—I have not forgotten. (He cuts the final thong that binds her.) Whither now, Goody Gurton? Nay, it would seem that we have need of each other. For you—a shoulder to lean on: for me—often I am lonely. I think what it would mean in my hut in the forest to look up and see a grand'mere sitting there! We be two outcasts; but the woods are kind. There is a song about that oversea: it says—
(Sings)
Blue the sky above you,
Dans la foret;
True the hearts that love you,
Courageux et gai!