“All here are his tools, the Acadians from fear, the Indians for gold. I am no tool, and for that, if needs be, I must suffer. But you—ah, my beloved and dear!” He sank impulsively upon his knees, and throwing his arm around his cousin and leaning his head on his grandsire’s knees, yielded himself to an abandonment of grief.
Finally Margot spoke, quietly and decisively.
“Dear Gabriel, thou canst indeed do nothing for us and thou art in peril here. Thou must make thy way with all speed to thy friend, the New England prêtre; he will succor and aid thee. Thou art like the Huguenots and the Puritans; thou wilt have to suffer for conscience’ sake.”
She smiled bravely, but her lips trembled.
“But you,” Gabriel groaned, “you!”
The poor boy was passing through that bitterest trial of all, experiencing what to all martyrs is worse than any fiery stake, the helpless, incomparable anguish of bringing suffering on those dearer to him than life. What if in the saving of his own soul alive he should have to trample over the bodies of the beloved? Might not his course be the very acme of self-seeking? What recompense could the martyr’s crown confer for this mortal agony of vicarious suffering?
But Margot’s steady, quiet voice went on; her soft touch was on his head. Timid she might be, but ah, brave, brave too!
“He will not hurt us, the abbé,” she said. “Do not fear, my cousin. If thou dost stay with us, thou wilt have to act a lie every day. Even should he refrain from pressing thee into his schemes, he will watch thee, and not one single ordinance of our church wilt thou be permitted to elude. He can be very hard, our abbé. No, dear Gabriel, vain is it to strive to serve two masters; if of our faith, thou must remain here and profess it; if of the other, thou must go.”
She averted her head and further speech failed her.
At that moment there was a violent knocking on the door. Gabriel was on his feet at once, alert, resolute once more.