“I knew he would track me,” he said, “but I had hoped not to be found here, and neither will I. Adieu, mon gran’-père. God in very truth keep you! Margot, the small door into the cowpen.”
At a word from the girl, Grétin crept into his covered bed in the wall, while she and Gabriel slipped noiselessly away through a back entrance.
“Let us go with thee, dear cousin,” implored Margot, as they paused for an instant among the cows, her fears for him making her once more timid.
“Ma chérie, no! Ah, my best beloved!”
He clasped her to his breast, kissed her passionately, as never before, on brow, cheek, and lips, and was gone.
On the house door the knocking continued, and the gran’-père’s voice was heard in the accents of one aroused from sleep. Margot, hastily composing her features and trusting that the traces of tears would not be visible in the light of the dying fire, re-entered the kitchen and, after much fumbling and delay, opened the door. Without stood Le Loutre, accompanied as usual by his “lambs.” Without deigning to address her, he snatched a torch from one of the Indians and, striding into the small house, explored every corner. Even the cowpen was not left unsearched. On pretense of arranging the bed-covering, Margot bent over her grandfather.
“Delay him if you can,” she breathed; “every moment is precious.”
But the priest was already at her side.
“Where is the malicious heretic, at last avowed?” he thundered.
“Ah, where is he, M. l’Abbé?” exclaimed Grétin, raising himself on his elbow, endued with a sudden excess of courage at the thought of Gabriel wandering alone through the perils of the forest. “Where is the boy, the son of my loved and only daughter, my heart’s treasure? Where is he, Gabriel, staff of my old age?”