“And may I not pray one little hour beside the grave of him who was all of father and mother I ever knew?” said Margot in stifled tones.
Le Loutre shrugged his shoulders; then crossed himself piously.
“As thou wilt, daughter. One little quarter of an hour will I give thee.”
He linked his arm in that of the curé and walked away with him.
Scarcely had the priestly pair disappeared than the bushes at Margot’s side rustled and Jean Jacques crept into view. Seizing her wrist in his sinewy fingers he led her toward the shore, close to which was now anchoring the English ship.
“The Micmac will find thee a refuge, maiden,” he said. “Follow Jean Jacques, and all will be well.”
But the timid Acadian girl shrank from the Indian.
“To go among those redcoats—and alone, Jean Jacques? Oh, I cannot.”
“Did not Jean Jacques swear to Wild Deer that he would save his kinswoman from the cruel priest?” said the Indian with stoicism, “and will he not do it even with the strength of his arm? Neither do the white braves harm women.”
“Yes—no—oh, I know not,” faltered Margot; “oh, leave me, Jean Jacques! Yet tell me first, where is Gabriel?”