The blue waves of the harbor of Chebucto leaped gayly landward before the strong south wind. On the wooden ramparts of Halifax the sentinels kept watch, specks of scarlet betwixt the blue of sea and sky, moving, automaton-like, on their appointed rounds. But the automatons possessed eyes, nevertheless, and those directed north were riveted on a band of Indians who, since sunrise, had been busy getting into camp about half a mile from the post.
The British colony at Halifax was now, counting those within and without its walls, over three thousand strong, and though the settlers without had been sorely harassed by Indians—whom the governor was beginning at last to suspect were set on by the French, despite the peace nominally existing between the two nations—they continued to thrive and increase. The Indians at present camping so near were soon recognized as Micmacs, who had made a solemn treaty with the British the previous year, consequently their appearance created but slight interest.
In his own simple apartments the “brave, sensible young man, of great temper and good nature,” was writing, with what for him was unusual irascibility, a letter to the Bishop of Quebec. But his patience had been sorely tried. “Was it you,” he wrote, “who sent Le Loutre as a missionary to the Micmacs? And is it for their good that he excites these wretches to practise their cruelties against those who have shown them every kindness? The conduct of the priests of Acadia has been such that by command of his majesty I have published an order declaring that if any one of them presumes to exercise his functions without my express permission he shall be dealt with according to the laws of England.”
Having finished his letter he gave orders that the French priest, Girard, should be invited to a final audience. Obedient to the summons, an elderly man, of strong and gentle countenance, made his appearance. Bidding him be seated, Cornwallis addressed him courteously in French.
“M. le Curé,” he began, “you know that you are one of very few who have been required to take the oath to do nothing contrary to the interests of the country I serve. Is not that so?”
The priest bent his head with quiet dignity.
“I believe now that of you it was not necessary to exact it.”
“Pardon, M. le Gouverneur, of me it was not exacted. I rendered it.”
“Pardon, M. le Curé, you are in the right. I owe you an apology.”