“This boy must be disciplined,” continued the priest sternly.
“Yes, M. l’Abbé, so it must be.”
It was at this moment that “the boy” presented himself, his head erect, his face pale, and holding the hand of his cousin.
“Drop the maiden’s hand and follow me!” was the abbé’s harsh salutation. “I have that to say which is not for feminine ears.”
Gabriel obeyed, but there was something in his air which, though promising submission, meant submission within definite limits.
Le Loutre entered the hut and closed the door on the peaceful, pastoral scene without, lit up by the rays of the declining sun. Then seating himself on a bench, rude and plain as were the furnishings of all the homes of the frugal and industrious Acadians, however rich in land and stock, he addressed Gabriel standing respectfully before him.
“What is thine age?”
“I shall be eighteen at the Christmastide.”
“Humph! a well-grown youth! Dost thou call thyself boy or man?”
An irrepressible smile curled Gabriel’s fresh lips, but he answered demurely: