"But which way should we fly?" I asked, half in doubt whether his warning should be heeded or derided. I could see that neither Marc nor Tamin had any such doubts. They were on the strain to be off, and only awaited my word.
"Go up the brook," said he, in a lower voice. "The first small stream on your left hand, turn up that a little way, and so—for the wolves shall this time be balked. But the black wolf's teeth bite deep. They shall bite upon the throats of the people!" he continued, his voice rising keenly, his white staff, with its grinning scarlet head, waving in strange, intricate curves. We were already off, making at almost full speed up the brook. Glancing back, I saw the fantastic form running to and fro over the ground where we had lain; and when the trees hid him we heard those ominous words wailed slowly over and over with the reiterance of a tolling bell:—
"Woe, woe for Acadie the Fair, for the day of her desolation cometh!"
"He'll throw them off the trail!" said Tamin, confidently.
"But how did they ever get on it?" queried Marc.
"'Tis plain that they have seen or heard us as we passed the strip of beach!" said I, in deep vexation, for I hated to be overreached by any one in woodcraft. "If we outwit them now, it's no thanks to my tactics, but only to that generous and astonishing madman. You both seemed to know him. Who, in the name of all the saints, might he be? What was it you called him, Tamin?"
"Grûl!" replied Tamin; and said no more, discreetly husbanding his wind. But Marc spoke for him.
"I have heard him called no other name but Grûl! Madman he is, at times, I think. But sane for the most part, and with some touches of a wisdom beyond the wisdom of men. The guise of madness he wears always; and the Indians, as well as our own people, reverence him mightily. It is nigh upon three years since he first appeared in Acadie. He hates the Black Abbé,—who, they say, once did him some great mischief in some other land than this,—and his strange ravings, his prodigious prophesyings, do something here and there to weaken the Abbé's influence with our people."
"Then how does he evade the good father's wrath?" I questioned, in wonder.
"Oh," said Marc, "the good father hates him cordially enough. But the Indians could not be persuaded, or bullied, or bribed, to lift a hand against him. They say a Manitou dwells in him."