God help me, I then being bound and gagged,—had I seen thus stood up against a tree, and never but for one end. I could not believe that such an end was contemplated now, and that by a priest of the Church, however unworthy of his office! But I checked my tongue and spoke the Abbé fair.

"It is quite plain to me, Monsieur," said I, quietly, "that my son and I are the victims of some serious mistake, for which you will, I am sure, feel constrained to ask our pardon presently. I await your explanations."

La Garne, still smiling, looked me over slowly. Never before had I seen him face to face, though he had more than once traversed my line of vision. I had known the tireless figure, as tall, almost, as Marc himself, stoop-shouldered, but robust, now moving swiftly as if propelled by an energy irresistible, now languid with an affectation of indolence. But the face—I hated the possessor of it with a personal hate the moment my eyes fell upon that face. Strong and inflexible was the gaunt, broad, and thin jaw, cruel and cunning the high, pinched forehead and narrow-set, palely glinting eyes. The nose, in particular, greatly offended me, being very long, and thick at the end. "I'll tweak it for him, one fine day," says I to myself, as I boiled under his steady smile.

"There is no mistake, Monsieur de Briart, believe me!" he said, still smiling.

There could be no more fair words, of course, after that avowal.

"Then, Sir Priest," said I, coldly, "you are both a madman and a scurvy rogue, and you shall yet be on your knees to me for this outrage. You will see then the nature of your mistake, I give you my word."

The priest's smile took on something of the complexion of a snarl.

"Don't be alarmed, Monsieur de Briart," said he. "You are quite safe, because I know you for a good servant to France; and for your late disrespect to Holy Church, in my person, while in talk with your pestilent son, these bonds may be a wholesome and sufficient lesson to you!"

"You shall have a lesson sufficient rather than wholesome, I promise you!" said I.

"But as for this fellow," went on the Abbé, without noticing my interruption, "he is a spy. You understand how spies fare, Monsieur!" And a malignant light made his eyes appear like two points of steel beneath the ambush of his ragged brows.

I saw Marc's lean face flush thickly under the gross accusation.

"It is a lie, you frocked hound!" he cried, careless of the instant peril in which he stood.

But the Black Abbé never looked at him.

"I wish you joy of your son, a very good Englishman, Monsieur, and now, I fear, not long for this world," said he, in a tone of high civility. "He has long been fouling with his slanders the names of those whom he should reverence, and persuading the people to the English. But now, after patiently waiting, I have proofs. His treachery shall hang him!"

For a moment the dear lad's peril froze my senses, so that it was but dimly I heard his voice, ringing with indignation as he hurled back the charge upon the lying lips that made it.

"If the home of lies be anywhere out of Hell, it is in your malignant mouth, you shame of the Church," he cried in defiance. "There can be no proof that I am a spy, even as there can be no proof that you are other than a false-tongued assassin, defiling your sacred office."

It was the galling defiance of a savage warrior at the stake, and even in my fear my heart felt proud of it. The priest was not galled, however, by these penetrating insults.

"As for the proofs," said he, softly, never looking at Marc, but keeping his eyes on my face, "Monsieur de Ramezay shall judge whether they be proofs or not. If he say they are not, I am content."

At a sign, a mere turn of his head it seemed to me, the Indians loosed Marc's feet to lead him away.

"Farewell, Father," said he, in a firm voice, and turned upon me a look of unshakable courage.

"Be of good heart, son," I cried to him. "I will be there, and this devil shall be balked!"

"You, Monsieur," said the priest, still smiling, "will remain here for the present. To-night I will send a villager to loose your bonds. Then, by all means, come over and see Monsieur de Ramezay at Chignecto. I may not be there then myself, but this business of the spy will have been settled, for the commander does not waste time in such small matters!"

He turned away to follow his painted band, and I, shaking in my impotent rage and fear, called after him:—

"As God lives and is my witness, if the lad comes to any harm, these hands will visit it upon you an hundredfold, till you scream for death's mercy!"

But the Black Abbé moved off as if he heard no word, and left me a twisted heap upon the turf, gnawing fiercely at the tough deer-hide of my bonds.

Chapter III

Tamin's Little Stratagem

I had been gnawing, gnawing in an anguish at the thongs, for perhaps five minutes. There had been no more than time for the Abbé's wolf-pack to vanish by a turn of the road. Suddenly a keen blade slit the thongs that bound my wrists. Then my feet felt themselves free. I sat up, astonished, and saw stooping over me the droll, broad face of Tamin the Fisher,—or Tamin Violet, as he was rightly, though seldom, called. His mouth was solemn, as always, having never been known to wear a smile; but the little wrinkles laughed about his small bright eyes. I sprang up and grasped his hand.

"We must not lose a moment, Tamin, my friend!" I panted, dragging him into the thick shade of the wood.

"I was thinking you might be in a hurry, M'sieu," said my rescuer. "But unless the mouse wants to be back in the same trap I've just let it out of, you'd better keep still a half-minute and make up your mind. They've a round road to go, and we'll go straight!"

"You saw it all?" I asked, curbing myself as best I could, for I perceived the wisdom of his counsel.

"Oh, ay, M'sieu, I saw it!" replied the Fisher. "And I laughed in my bones to hear the lad talk up to the good father. There was more than one shot went home, I warrant, for all the Black Abbé seemed so deaf. They're festering under his soutane even now, belike!"

"But come!" said I. "I've got my wind!" And we darted noiselessly through the cool of the great trees, turning a little east from the road.

We ran silently for a space, my companion's short but massive frame leaping, bending, gliding even as lightly as my own, which was ever as lithe as a weasel's. Tamin was a rare woodsman, as I marked straightway, though I had known him of old rather as a faithful tenant, and marvellously patient to sit in his boat all day a-fishing on the drift of the Minas tides.

Presently he spoke, under his breath.

"Very like," said he, drily, "when we come up to them they will all fall down. So, we will take the lad and walk away! eh, what, M'sieu?"

"Only let us come up to them," said I, "and learn their plans. Then we will make ours!"

"Something of theirs I know," said Tamin. "Their canoes are on the Canard maybe three furlongs to east of the road. Thence they will carry the lad to de Ramezay, for the Black Abbé will have things in due form when he can conveniently, and now it is plain he has a scheme well ripe. But if this wind holds, we'll be there before them. My boat is lying hard by."

"God be praised!" I muttered; for in truth I saw some light now for the first time. Presently, drawing near the road again, I heard the voice of La Garne. We at once went softly, and, avoiding again, made direct for where lay the canoes. There we disposed ourselves in a swampy thicket, with a little breadth of water lying before and all the forest behind. The canoes lay just across the little water, and so close that I might have tossed my cap into them. The clean smell of the wet salt sedge came freshly into the thicket. The shadows lay long on the water. We had time to grow