“Julie’s brother may chance to be there, Master Paul,” said he. “He is known for his devotion to Monsieur Anderson, whom few of us love. I will go wake the lad, if he’s there, while you rouse the master.”
“If you should fail to get back this way, my friend,” said I, “let us meet, say, at the boat.”
“Yes, at the boat,” he answered confidently.
I paused, partly to get breath, partly to follow him with a look of grateful admiration, the modest, still, strong, faithful retainer, of a type nigh vanished. He ran with his black-shock head thrust forward, and the great dog bounded beside him like a kitten.
It was the last I ever saw of Nicole Brun; nor to this day, for all my searching, have I had word of what befell him. Of the dog I learned something, seeing his skin, a year later, worn upon the shoulders of an Indian boy of the Micmac settlement. From this I could make shrewd guess at the fate of my Nicole; but the Indian lies astutely, and I could prove nothing. Sleep well, Nicole, my brave and true!
George Anderson’s wide red door carried a brass knocker which grinned venomously in the moonlight. My first summons brought no answer. Then I thundered again, imperatively, and I heard Anderson’s voice within, calling to servants. No servants made reply, so again I hammered, and shook fiercely at the door. Then he came himself, looking bewildered.
“Monsieur Grande, pardon me! The servants”—
“The servants have fled,” I interrupted. “Come quickly! There is not a minute to lose. The abbé’s savages are near. They are coming to scalp you and burn your house. We will leave them the house.”
There was no sign of fear on his face, merely annoyance; and I saw that his mind worked but heavily.
“Come in!” he said, leading the way into a wide room looking out upon the Kenneticook tide. “I won’t be driven by those curs. They dare not touch me. At the worst, with the help of the servants we can fight them off. Sit down, monsieur.”