“This comes to us by way of Boston. These English have an excellent judgment in liquor, Paul. It is one of our small compensations.”
I laughed, thinking of the scant concern it was to Father Fafard, ever, for all his fineness of palate, one of the most abstemious of men. As we sat at ease and sipped the brew he said:
“I hear you faced down the Black Abbé last night, and fairly drove him off the field.”
“I had that satisfaction,” said I, striving to look modest over it.
“He gave way to you, the Black Abbé himself, who browbeats the commandant at Beauséjour, and fears no man living,—unless it be that mad heretic Grûl, perchance! And he yielded to your authority, my boy? How do you account for the miracle?”
Now it had not hitherto seemed to me so much of a miracle, and I was a shade nettled that it should seem one to others. I was used to controlling violent men, and why not meddling priests?
“I suppose he saw I meant it. Perhaps he respected the king’s commission. I know not,” said I with indifference.
Father Fafard smiled dryly.
“I grant,” said he, “that you are a hard man to cross, Paul, for all your graciousness. But La Garne would risk that, or anything; and he cares for the king’s commission only when it suits him to care for it. Oh, no! If he gave way to you he believed you were doing his work, and he would not interfere. What is your errand to Acadie, Paul?” he added, suddenly leaning forward and searching my face.
I felt myself flush with indignation, and half rose from my seat. Then I remembered that he knew nothing of my reasons for coming, and that his question was but natural. This cooled me. But I looked him reproachfully in the eyes.