"The English have not forgotten that we helped our kinsmen, the French, against them," replied the blacksmith. "Many of the villagers fear they mean to harm us, and have already fled to the forest, taking with them all the weapons they could lay hands on."
"Fear no evil, my friend," said the jovial farmer. "To-night, at any rate, let no shadow of sorrow fall on this house, for we are assembled here to draw up our children's marriage contract. Their house is built, the barns filled with hay, and all is in readiness for them."
As he spoke a knock was heard at the door and the worthy notary, Père Leblanc, came in. The disquieting news in the village was discussed anew, and the notary said: "Man is unjust, but God is just, and justice finally triumphs. When I was taken captive and lay imprisoned in a French fort I was often consoled by an old story which ran thus: 'Once in an ancient city, whose name I cannot recall, poised on a column, stood a brazen statue of Justice. In her right hand she held a sword, and in her left a pair of scales. The birds of the air had no fear of the sword which flashed and glittered in the sunshine, and some of the boldest among them even built their nests in the scales. Now it chanced that a necklace of pearls was lost in a nobleman's palace and suspicion fell on a young maid-servant. Although her guilt could not be proved, she was condemned to death, and her execution took place at the foot of the statue of Justice. But as her innocent spirit rose to heaven, lo! a terrible storm swept over the city and struck the statue with such force that the scales of the balance were hurled down on to the pavement. When they were picked up, in the hollow was found a magpie's nest, into the clay sides of which the pearl necklace was interwoven.'"
The blacksmith was silent, though not convinced by the notary's tale, but he said nothing further on the subject. The notary produced his papers and ink-horn and drew out in due form the marriage contract between Gabriel and Evangeline; then, pocketing the substantial fee which the farmer offered him, he drank the young couple's health and withdrew. The old men settled down to their customary game of draughts, and the lovers sat in the window-seat watching the moon rise and the stars come out one by one. At nine the village curfew rang, and the guests rose up and departed.
The next morning a betrothal feast was held in Benedict's orchard. The young men and maidens danced gayly to the sound of old Michael's fiddling, and of them all no maiden was so fair as Evangeline, no youth so handsome as Gabriel. Thus was the morning passed, and soon the church-bells and the beat of drums summoned the people to the appointed meeting-place. The women were bidden to wait in the churchyard, while the men thronged into the church. The guard came marching from the English ships, and, when they had entered the sacred building, the heavy doors were fastened and the crowd waited eagerly to hear what was coming. Speaking from the steps of the altar, the Commander said: "You are summoned here to-day by his Majesty the King's command, and he has given me a painful duty to perform. The will of our monarch is that all your lands, dwellings, and cattle be forfeited to the crown, and that you yourselves shall be transported to other lands. And now I declare you my prisoners."
Loud was the clamor of sorrow and anger which uprose at these words and Basil the blacksmith shouted wildly: "Down with the tyrants of England!" In the midst of the angry tumult the door of the chancel opened and Father Felician entered the church. Ascending the steps of the altar, the good priest made a gesture to command silence and all were subdued by his noble words: "Even of our enemies let us say, 'O Father, forgive them!'" Then he calmly conducted the evening service, and never were prayers more earnestly said than on that dreadful night.
For four days the men were imprisoned in the church, while their womenfolk, sick with sorrow, waited in their homes. On the fifth day a long procession of women and children came, driving in ponderous wagons laden with their household goods, down to the seashore. Then the church doors were unbarred, and, pale with grief and imprisonment, the Acadian peasants marched to the harbor under the escort of soldiers. Evangeline was on the watch for her dear ones; to her lover she whispered words of encouragement, and strove to cheer her father, though sadly affrighted by his dejection and the way he seemed suddenly to have grown much older.