“Good father,” said she most sweetly, but with an edge to her voice, “do you not take something the advantage of your gown? Might I not be so bold as to entreat a more courteous deliverance of your commands?”
“What have I to do with forms and courtesies, woman?” he answered—and ignored Yvonne’s laughing acquiescence of “What, indeed, monsieur?” “I come to admonish you back to your duty; and to warn you, if you heed not. I learn that you are about to go to Halifax, Giles de Lamourie, and there forswear France, bowing your neck to the English robber. Is this true?”
“I am about to swear allegiance to England, Father La Garne,” said De Lamourie coldly.
The priest’s pale eyes narrowed.
“There is yet time to change your mind,” said he, in a voice grown suddenly smooth. “Give me your word that you will remain faithful to France and the bolt which even now hangs over your recreant head shall never fall!”
I looked about me in deep astonishment. Yvonne’s face was splendid in its impatient scorn. Madame looked solicitous, but composed. Anderson smiled coolly. But De Lamourie was hot with indignation.
“It was not to be dictated to by every tonsured meddler that I came to Acadie,” he cried, rashly laying himself open.
“I have heard as much,” said the priest dryly. “But enough of this talk,” he went on, his voice again vibrating. “You, George Anderson, seducer of these people from their king, look to yourself! Your threshold is red. As for this house”—and he looked around with slow and solemn menace—“as for this house, it shall not see to-morrow’s sun!”
Hitherto I had been silent, as became a mere new-come guest; but this was too much for me.
“Ay, but it shall!” said I bluntly, stepping forward.