“Seek thine own safety,” she said hurriedly, “and if mon cousin lives, tell him——”
Her voice broke, and she started to follow the already moving priest.
“If Gabriel lives!” cried another voice, and in a moment she was in the arms of its owner.
What matter that he wore the scarlet coat of the British soldier, that he had forsworn the faith of their common forefathers? Was he not Gabriel still, the playmate of her childhood, and now, as she suddenly understood, the lover of her youth?
It was but for a moment, and then the priest tore them asunder.
“Heretic boy!” he exclaimed, regardless of the Micmac, who once more approached threateningly, “release this maiden, unworthy as thou art to touch the hem of her garment.”
But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest. He freed Margot from his embrace indeed, but held her hand firmly in his, and flushed and smiling gazed upon the small, downcast face bright with rapture.
“It is with me thou comest, is it not so, ma cousine?” he said softly, bending over her.
She lifted her dark eyes, and for a long minute they rested on his, heedless of the objurgations of Le Loutre. Then she remembered, and her face grew suddenly so pale that its wanness struck Gabriel with a great fear. How much, ah, how much, she had suffered. He seemed to see it all now.
“I have promised—I dare not break my sacred word.”