“What is it, ma mie?”
“Wilt thou not depart to-night to thy friends whom thou dost sometimes visit without the walls of the new Halifax, by the harbor called of us Chebucto? There lives that English priest who taught thee discontent with our blessed religion and with our beloved curé.”
“Not with our curé, Margot. He is good; he makes all religion beautiful and true. But wouldst thou blame me because my heart turns to the faith of my father? That in which my mother might have found courage to rear me had she lived?”
“No, mon cousin, no, not blame. But grievous danger threatens all who defy the abbé, and thee more than others, because of thy hated English blood. But listen, Gabriel; dost thou indeed love Margot as though she were thine own sister?”
The boy was silent a moment, then he answered simply:
“That I cannot tell thee, Margot, seeing that I never had a sister. But I love thee as I love none other besides.”
“That is well,” she said with equal simplicity, “because to save thy life for my sake thou must act contrary to thy nature.”
He sprang to his feet, his blue eyes flashing so that for a moment Margot quailed before him.
“You would not have me play the coward and liar?” he cried. “That I cannot do, even for thee. I am an Acadian—yes. Yet neither of these things will I be!”
“I too am an Acadian,” replied the young girl with quiet dignity, “yet am I not false. Timid I may be, for such is the wont of my sex.”