“A hundred livres for each scalp—a hundred livres, mark you! This boy knows, as you cannot do, the plan of the fort at Halifax, and the number of its defenders. If he be so mighty a tracker, let him track these English dogs to their lair and fire them out of it, or in it, it matters not which, so that to God and the king are restored what is rightly theirs. But remember, a hundred livres is yours for every English scalp! My people may not do this thing, for they have signed a peace with their enemies, but for your people it is otherwise.”
“Have we too, not set our totems to a solemn treaty?” growled one dissenting voice.
Once more from the priest that gesture of contempt.
“And what is that for such as you?” he said. “What is a broken treaty to the Indian?”
Gabriel, unable longer to contain himself, sprang to his feet.
“Mon père!” he cried, his heart in a flame, a blaze of sudden illumination in his soul. “Nay, never more mon père! M. l’Abbé, is this, then, the Christianity, the fealty to God and the king, to which you would have me faithful? Then, God willing, faithless will I be.”
For a long minute there was dead silence, broken only by the quick breathing of the excited boy. The Indians, though not fully understanding the words, realized their daring, and gazed upon him with all the admiration of which their anger was capable.
“Do your work,” said Le Loutre at last coldly, signing to the Micmacs at his side.
In a moment Gabriel was thrown to the ground, his arms bound to his side, his feet tied. A hole was dug in the ground, a post placed in it, and around the post fresh logs were heaped.
Such scenes, alas! were not uncommon under the despotic rule of Abbé Le Loutre, and though no instance is recorded of actual sacrifice of life, owing perhaps almost as much to Acadian timidity as to priestly forbearance, much terror and temporary suffering were caused by his blind fanaticism. But in this boy of mixed race there was stouter stuff to deal with, and his English blood was to the priest as a thing accursed.