Yvonne, meanwhile, was speeding across the open fields, in the teeth of the wind. The ground was hard as iron, but there was little snow—only a dry, powdery covering deep enough to keep the stubble from hurting her feet. She ran straight for the tiny cabin of Mother Pêche, trusting to find her not yet gone. None of the houses at the eastern end of the village were as yet on fire. That of Mother Pêche stood a little apart, in a bushy pasture-lot. Yvonne found the low door swinging wide, the house deserted; but there were red embers still on the hearth, whereby she knew the old woman had not been long away.
The empty house seemed to whisper of fear and grief from every corner. She turned away and ran toward the landing, her heart chilled with a sudden apprehension that she might be too late. Before she was clear of the bushes, however, she stopped with a cry. A man who seemed to have risen out of the ground stood right in her path. He was of a sturdy figure, somewhat short, and clad in dull-coloured homespun of peasant fashion. At sight of her beauty and her alarm his woollen cap was snatched from his head and his cunning face took on the utmost deference.
“Have no fear of me, mademoiselle,—Mademoiselle de Lamourie, if I may hazard a guess from your beauty,” said he smoothly. “It is I who am in peril, lest you should reveal me to my enemies.”
“Who are you, monsieur?” she asked, recovering her self-possession and fretting to be gone.
“A spy,” he whispered, “in the pay of the King of France, who must know, to avenge them later, the wrongs of his people here in Acadie. I have thrown myself on your mercy, that I might ask you if the families who have found favour with the English will remain here after this work is done, or be taken elsewhere. I pray you inform me.”
“Believe me, I do not know their plans, monsieur,” answered Yvonne. “And I beg you to let me pass, for my haste is desperate.”
“Let me escort you to the edge of the bush, then, mademoiselle,” said he courteously, stepping from the path. “And not to delay you, I will question you as we go, if you will permit. Is the Englishman, Monsieur George Anderson, still here?”
“He is, monsieur. But now leave me, I entreat you.”
She was wild with fear lest the stranger’s presence should frustrate her design.