“Nevertheless he was no Indian,” concluded Louis shrewdly, glancing over his shoulder and speaking in a whisper; “it was M. l’Abbé himself.”
“How knowest thou that?” growled Marin.
“I do know it,” asserted Herbes with quiet confidence. “There were some who also knew and told. I have spoken aloud and sorely of the loss of our Margot.”
“Yes, bon ami,” sneered Marin. “Now tell it all. Give le bon prêtre into the hands of the heretics.”
“Whom I may trust, that also I know,” exclaimed Louis vehemently, turning upon his friend. . . Then more calmly, “No matter for that. M. l’Abbé is out of Acadie ere now, and we, say I, are well rid of him. Only grief and trouble did he bring us.”
He glanced around defiantly, but the little group remained passive. Gabriel stood apart, his face hidden in his horse’s mane. At length he spoke:
“And thou knowest no more, good Louis? Thou hast no clue?”
“This only: that from Baye-Verte M. l’Abbé, and his brother priest made sail for Quebec, and it was said that he would leave our Margot at Isle St. Jean, where is a goodly colony of our people, driven out of Acadie long since and living miserably.”
Gabriel groaned. Julie stepped forward and laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder.
“Better that than the Indians,” she exclaimed in the sanguine tones habitual to her. “And something tells me that la petite escaped. Who knows? She may have made her way to Halifax.”