He did not utter a word, yet there was almost instantaneous silence. The merry-go-round stopped, the dancers paused, and a hush fell on all present.
"My dear people," he said, "it rejoices me to see so many of you here to-day, and to know that you are enjoying yourselves. Let us be thankful to God for the fine weather. I am here to request you to do me a favor. You all have old people in your homes,—you hear them talking of the great expulsion. I wish you to ask these old ones whether they remember a certain Etex LeNoir, called the Fiery Frenchman of Grand Pré. He, too, was carried away, but never reached his destination, having died on the ship Confidence, but his wife and child probably arrived in Philadelphia. Find out, if you can, the fate of this widow and her child,—whether they died in a foreign land, or whether she succeeded in coming back to Acadie,—and bring the information to me."
He descended the steps, and Vesper hastened to thank him warmly for his interest.
"It may result in nothing," said the priest, "yet there is an immense amount of information stored up among the Acadiens on this Bay; I do not at all despair of finding this family," and he took a kindly leave of Vesper, after directing him where to find his mother.
"But this is terrible," said Rose, trying to restrain the ardent Narcisse, who was dragging her towards his beloved Englishman. "My child, thy mother will be forced to whip thee."
Vesper at that moment turned around, and his keen glance sought her out. "Why do you struggle with him?" he asked, coming to meet them.
"But I cannot have him tease you."
"He does not tease me," and in quiet sympathy Vesper endeavored to restore peace to her troubled mind. She, most beautiful flower of all this show, and most deserving of joy and comfort, had been unhappy and ill at ease ever since they entered the gates. The lingering, furtive glances of several young Acadiens were unheeded by her. Her only thought was to reach her home and be away from this bustle and excitement, and it was his mother who had wrought this change in her; and in sharp regret, Vesper surveyed the little lady, who, apparently in the most amiable of moods, was sitting chatting to an Acadien matron to whom Father La Croix had introduced her.
A slight scuffle in a clump of green bushes beside them distracted his attention from her. A pleading exclamation from a manly voice was followed by an eloquent silence, a brisk sound like a slap, or a box on the ears, and a laugh from a girl, with a threatening, "Tu me paicras ça" (Thou shalt pay me for that).
Vesper laughed too. There was something so irresistibly comical in the man's second exclamation of dismayed surprise.