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The Lily and the Cross: A Tale of Acadia

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Title: The Lily and the Cross: A Tale of Acadia

Author: James De Mille


        
Release date: January 27, 2010 [eBook #31096]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LILY AND THE CROSS: A TALE OF ACADIA ***




Produced by Marlo Dianne








[Illustration: A Meeting In Mid Ocean.]




The

LILY AND THE CROSS.

A Tale of Acadia.

By

PROF. JAMES DE MILLE,

Author Of "the Dodge Club," "Cord And Creese," "the B. O. W. C.
Stories," "the Young Dodge Club," Etc

ILLUSTRATED.

BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, By LEE AND
SHEPARD, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I.
A Voice Out Of The Deep

CHAPTER II.
A Meeting In Mid Ocean

CHAPTER III.
New Friends

CHAPTER IV.
Mimi And Margot

CHAPTER V.
A Strange Revelation

CHAPTER VI.
A French Frigate

CHAPTER VII.
Caught In A Trap

CHAPTER VIII.
Under Arrest

CHAPTER IX.
Grand Pre

CHAPTER X.
Alone In The World

CHAPTER XI.
A Friend In Need

CHAPTER XII.
The Parson Among The Philistines

CHAPTER XIII.
A Stroke For Liberty

CHAPTER XIV.
Manoeuvres Of Zac

CHAPTER XV.
Flight

CHAPTER XVI.
Reunion

CHAPTER XVII.
Among Friends

CHAPTER XVIII.
Louisbourg

CHAPTER XIX.
The Captive And The Captors

CHAPTER XX.
Examinations

CHAPTER XXI.
A Ray Of Light

CHAPTER XXII.
Escape

CHAPTER XXIII.
Pursuit

CHAPTER XXIV.
Zac And Margot

CHAPTER XXV.
The Court Martial

CHAPTER XXVI.
News From Home




THE LILY AND THE CROSS.

A TALE OF ACADIA.




CHAPTER I.

A VOICE OUT OF THE DEEP.


Once upon a time there was a schooner belonging to Boston which was
registered under the somewhat singular name of the "Rev. Amos Adams."
This was her formal title, used on state occasions, and was, no
doubt, quite as appropriate as the more pretentious one of the "Duke
of Marlborough," or the "Lord Warden." As a general thing, however,
people designated her in a less formal manner, using the simpler and
shorter title of the "Parson." Her owner and commander was a tall,
lean, sinewy young man, whoso Sunday-go-to-meeting name was Zion
Awake Cox, but who was usually referred to by an ingenious
combination of the initials of these three names, and thus became
Zac, and occasionally Zachariah. This was the schooner which, on a
fine May morning, might have been seen "bounding over the billows" on
her way to the North Pole.

About her motion on the present occasion, it must be confessed there
was not much bounding, nor much billow. Nor, again, would it have
been easy for any one to see her, even if he had been brought close
to her; for the simple reason that the "Parson," as she went on her
way, carrying Zac and his fortunes, had become involved in a fog
bank, in the midst of which she now lay, with little or no wind to
help her out of it.

Zac was not alone on board, nor had the present voyage been
undertaken on his own account, or of his own motion. There were two
passengers, one of whom had engaged the schooner for his own
purposes. This one was a young fellow who called himself Claude
Motier, of Randolph. His name, as well as his face, had a foreign
character; yet he spoke English with the accent of an Englishman, and
had been brought up in Massachusetts, near Boston, where he and Zac
had seen very much of one another, on sea and on shore. The other
passenger was a Roman Catholic priest, whose look and accent
proclaimed him to be a Frenchman. He seemed about fifty years of age,
and his bronzed faced, grizzled hair, and deeply-wrinkled brow, all
showed the man of action rather than the recluse. Between these two
passengers there was the widest possible difference. The one was
almost a boy, the other a world-worn old man; the one full of life
and vivacity, the other sombre and abstracted; yet between the two
there was, however, a mysterious resemblance, which possibly may have
been something more than that air of France, which they both had.

Whatever it may have been, they had been strangers to one another
until the past few days, for Claude Motier had not seen the priest
until after he had chartered the schooner for a voyage to Louisbourg.
The priest had then come, asking for a passage to that port. He gave
his name as the Abbé Michel, and addressed Claude in such bad English
that the young man answered in French of the best sort, whereat the
good priest seemed much delighted, and the two afterwards conversed
with each other altogether in that language.

Besides these three, there were the ship's company dispersed about
the vessel. This company were not very extensive, not numbering over
three, in addition to Zac. These three all differed in age, in race,
and in character. The aged colored man, who was at that moment
washing out some tins at the bows, came aboard as cook, with the
understanding that he was to be man of all work. He was a slave of
Zac's, but, like many domestic slaves in those days, he seemed to
regard himself as part of his master's family,--in fact, a sort of
respected relative. He rejoiced in the name of Jericho, which was
often shortened to Jerry, though the aged African considered the
shorter name as a species of familiarity which was only to be
tolerated on the part of his master. The second of the ship's company
was a short, athletic, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, round-faced lad,
who was always singing and dancing except when he was whistling. His
name was Terry, and his country Ireland. In addition to Jerry and
Terry, there was a third. He was a short, dull, and somewhat doleful
looking boy of about twelve, who had a crushed expression, and seemed
to take gloomy views of life. The only name by which he was known to
himself and others was Biler; but whether that was a Christian name,
or a surname, or a nickname, cannot be said. Biler's chief trouble in
life was an inordinate and insatiable appetite. Nothing came amiss,
and nothing was ever refused. Zac had picked the boy up three years
before, and since that time he had never known him to be satisfied.
At the present moment, Terry was standing at the tiller, while Biler
was at the masthead, to which he had climbed to get rid of the
disappointments of the world below, in a more elevated sphere, and
from his lofty perch he was gazing with a hungry eye forth into
space, and from time to time pulling bits of dried codfish from his
pocket, and thrusting them into his mouth.

"Hy da!" suddenly shouted the aged Jericho, looking up. "You da,
Biler? You jis come down heah an' help me fotch along dese yar tings.
Ef you ain't got notin' to do, Ise precious soon find you lots ob
tings. Hurry down, da; make haste; relse I'll pitch some hot water up
at you. I can't be boddered wid dese yer pots an' pans any longer,
cos Ise got de dinna to meditate 'bout."

With these words Jericho stood up, regarding Biler with an appearance
of grave dignity, which would have overawed even a less solemn lad
than this. Biler did not refuse obedience, but thrusting a few
fragments of dried codfish into his mouth, heaved a sigh, gave
another dejected look at surrounding space, and then slowly and
mournfully descended to the lower world.

The priest was seated on a water-cask, reading his Breviary, while
Zac stood not far off, looking thoughtfully over the vessel's side.
Terry was at the tiller, not because there was any steering to be
done, but because he thought it would be as well for every one to be
at his post in the event of a change of wind. He had whistled "St.
Patrick's Day in the Morning," and was about beginning another
interminable strain of the same kind. Claude was lounging about, and
gradually drew nearer to the meditative Zac, whom he accosted.

"Well, we don't appear to be making much progress--do we?" said he.

Zac slowly shook his head.

"No," said he; "I must say, I don't like this here one mite. 'Tain't
quite right. Seems kin' o' unlucky."

"Unlucky? How?"

"Wal, fust and foremost, ef it hadn't been you, you'd never a' got me
to pint the Parson's nose for that French hole, Louisbourg."

"Why not?" asked Claude, in some surprise; "you don't suppose that
there's any danger--do you?"

"Wal, it's a risky business--no doubt o' that thar. You see, my
'pinion is this, that Moosoo's my nat'ral born enemy, an' so I don't
like to put myself into his power."

"O, there's no danger," said Claude, cheerily. "There's peace now,
you know--as yet."

Zac shook his head.

"No," said he, "that ain't so. There ain't never real peace out here.
There's on'y a kin' o' partial peace in the old country. Out here, we
fight, an' we've got to go on fightin', till one or the other goes
down. An' as to peace, 'tain't goin' to last long, even in the old
country, 'cordin' to all accounts. There's fightin' already off in
Germany, or somewhars, they say."

"But you know," said Claude, "you thought you could manage this for
me somehow. You said you could put me ashore somewhere without
trusting yourself in Louisbourg harbor--some bay or other--wasn't it?
I forget what the name is. There's no trouble about that now--is
there?"

"Wal, not more'n thar was afore," said Zac, slowly; "on'y it seems
more resky to me here, jest now, settin' here this way, inactive
like; p'aps it's the fog that's had a kin' o' depressin' effect on my
sperrits; it's often so. Or mebbe it's the effect of the continooal
hearin' of that darned frog-eatin' French lingo that you go on a
jabberin' with the priest thar. I never could abide it, nor my
fathers afore me; an' how ever you--you, a good Protestant, an' a
Massachusetts boy, an' a loyal subject of his most gracious majesty,
King George--can go on that way, jabberin' all day long with that
thar priest in that darned outlandish lingo,--wal, it beats me,--it
doos clar."

At this Claude burst into a merry laugh.

"Well, by George," he cried, "if this ain't the greatest case of
patriotic prejudice! What's the matter with the French language? It's
better than English to talk with. Besides, even if it wern't, the
French can't help their language. If it were yours, you'd like it,
you know. And then I hope you're not beginning to take a prejudice
against the good Père Michel. He's as fine a fellow as ever lived, by
George!"

"O, mind you, now, I wan't intendin' to say anythin' agin him," said
Zac. "I like him, an' can't help it, he's so gentle, an' meek, an'
has sech a look out of his eyes. Blamed if I don't sometimes feel
jest as though he's my father. O, no, I ain't got anythin' agin' him.
Far from it. But it's the idee. For here, you see--this is the way
it is; here aboard the Parson I see a Roman Catholic priest; I hear
two people jabber French all day long. It makes me feel jest for all
the world as though I'd got somehow into the hands of the
Philistines. It seems like bein' a captive. It kin' o' seems a sort
o' bad lookout; a kin' o' sort o' sign, you know, of what's a goin'
to happen afore I git back agin."

At this, which was spoken with much earnestness, and with a very
solemn face, Claude gave another laugh.

"O, that's all nonsense," said he, gayly. "Why, you don't really
think, now, that you're going to get into trouble through me--do you?
And then as to Père Michel, why, I feel as much confidence in him as
I do in myself. So come, don't get into this low state of mind, but
pluck up your spirits. Never mind the fog, or the French language.
They oughtn't to have such an effect on a fellow of your size and
general build. You'll put us ashore at that bay you spoke of, and
then go home all right. That's the way of it. As to the land, you
can't have any danger from that quarter; and as to the sea, why, you
yourself said that the French cruiser was never built that could
catch you."

"Wal," said Zac, "that's a fac', an' no mistake. Give me any kin' of
wind, an' thar ain't a Moosoo afloat that can come anywhar nigh the
Parson. Still, jest now, in this here fog,--an' in the calm, too,--if
a Moosoo was to come along, why, I railly don't--quite--know--what--I
could--railly do."

"The fog! O, in the fog you'll be all right enough, you know," said
Claude.

"O, but that's the very thing I don't know," said Zac. "That thar
pint's the very identical pint that I don't feel at all clear about,
an' would like to have settled."

Claude said nothing for a few moments. He now began to notice in the
face, the tone, and the manner of Zac something very different from
usual--a certain uneasiness approaching to anxiety, which seemed to
be founded on something which he had not yet disclosed.

"What do you mean?" he asked, rather gravely, suddenly dropping his
air of light banter.

Zac drew a long breath.

"Wal," said he, "this here fog makes it very easy for a Moosoo to
haul up alongside all of a suddent, an' ax you for your papers. An'
what's more," he continued, dropping his voice to a lower tone, and
stooping, to bring his mouth nearer to Claude's ear, "what's more, I
don't know but what, at this very moment, there's a Moosoo railly an'
truly a little mite nearer to us than I altogether keer for to hev
him."

"What!" exclaimed Claude, with a start; "do you really think so?
What! near us, here in this fog?"

"Railly an' truly," said Zac, solemnly, "that's my identical
meanin'--jest it, exactly; an' 'tain't overly pleasant, no how. See
here;" and Zac dropped his voice to still lower tones, and drew still
nearer to Claude, as he continued--"see here, now; I'll tell you what
happened jest now. As I was a standin' here, jest afore you come up,
I thought I heerd voices out thar on the starboard quarter
--voices--"

"Voices!" said Claude. "O, nonsense! Voices! How can there be voices
out there? It must have been the water."

"Wal," continued Zac, still speaking in a low tone, "that's the very
thing I thought when I fust heerd 'em; I thought, too, it must be the
water. But, if you jest take the trouble to examine, you'll find that
thur ain't enough motion in the water to make any sound at all.
'Tain't as if thar was a puffin' of the wind an a dashin' of the
waves. Thar ain't no wind an' no waves, unfort'nat'ly; so it seems
beyond a doubt that it must either be actooal voices, or else
somethin' supernat'ral. An' for my part I'd give somethin' for the
wind to rise jest a leetle mite, so's I could step off out o' this,
an' git out o' hearin', at least."

At this Claude was again silent for some time, thinking to himself
whether the possibility of a French ship being near was to be wished
or dreaded. Much was to be said on both sides. To himself it would,
perhaps, be desirable; yet not so to Zac, although he tried to
reassure the dejected skipper by telling him that if a French vessel
should really be so near, it would be all the better, since his
voyage would thereby be made all the shorter, for he himself could go
aboard, and the Parson might return to Boston. But Zac refused to be
so easily comforted.

"No," said he; "once I git into their clutches, they'll never let me
go; and as for the poor old Parson, why, they'll go an' turn her into
a Papist priest. And that," he added, with a deep sigh, "would be
too--almighty--bad!"

Claude now found that Zac was in too despondent a mood to listen to
what he called reason, and therefore he held his tongue. The idea
that a French ship might be somewhere near, behind that wall of fog,
had in it something which to him was not unpleasant, since it
afforded some variety to the monotony of his situation. He stood,
therefore, in silence, with his face turned towards the direction
indicated by Zac, and listened intently, while the skipper stood in
silence by his side, listening also.

There was no wind whatever. The water was quite smooth, and the
Parson rose and fell at the slow undulations of the long ocean
rollers, while at every motion the spars creaked and the sails
flapped idly. All around there arose a gray wall of fog, deep, dense,
and fixed, which shut them in on every side, while overhead the sky
itself was concealed from view by the same dull-gray canopy. Behind
that wall of fog anything might lie concealed; the whole French fleet
might be there, without those on board the Parson being anything the
wiser. This Claude felt, and as he thought of the possibility of
this, he began to see that Zac's anxiety was very well founded, and
that if the Parson should be captured it would be no easy task to
deliver her from the grasp of the captor. Still there came no further
sounds, and Claude, after listening for a long time without hearing
anything, began, at length, to conclude that Zac had been deceived.

"Don't you think," he asked, "that it may, after all, have been the
rustle of the sails, or the creaking of the spars?"

Zac shook his head.

"No," said he; "I've heerd it twice; an' I know very well all the
sounds that sails an' spars can make; an' I don't see as how I can be
mistook. O, no; it was human voice, an' nothin' else in natur'. I
wouldn't mind it a mite if I could do anythin'. But to set here an'
jest git caught, like a rat in a trap, is what I call
too--almighty--bad!"

At this very instant, and while Zac was yet speaking, there came
through the fog the sound of a voice. Claude heard it, and Zac also.
The latter grasped the arm of his friend, and held his breath. It was
a human voice. There was not the slightest doubt now of that. Words
had been spoken, but they were unintelligible. They listened still.
There was silence for a few moments, and then the silence was broken
once more. Words were again heard. They were French, and they heard
them this time with perfect distinctness. They were these:--

"_Put her head a little over this way_."




CHAPTER II.

A MEETING IN MID OCEAN.


_Put her head a little over this way_!

They were French words. To Claude, of course, they were perfectly
intelligible, though not so to Zac, who did not understand any
language but his mother Yankee. Judging by the distinctness and the
loudness of the sound, the speaker could not be very far away. The
voice seemed to come from the water astern. No sight, however, was
visible; and the two, as they stared into the fog, saw nothing
whatever. Nor did any of the others on board seem to have heard the
voice. The priest was still intent on his Breviary. Terry was still
whistling his abominable tune. Jericho was below with his pots and
pans; and Biler, taking advantage of his absence, was seated on the
taffrail devouring a raw turnip, which he chewed with a melancholy
air. To none of these had the voice been audible, and therefore
Claude and Zac alone were confronted with this mystery of the deep.
But it was a mystery which they could not fathom; for the fog was all
around, hiding everything from view, and the more they peered into
the gloom the less were they able to understand it.

Neither of them spoke for some time. Zac had not understood the
words, but was more puzzled about the fact of a speaker being so near
on the water, behind the fog, than he was about the meaning of the
words which had been spoken. That seemed to be quite a secondary
consideration. And it was not until he had exhausted his resources in
trying to imagine what or where the one might be, that, he thought of
asking about the other.

"What did it mean?" he asked, at length.

Claude told him.

Zac said nothing for some time.

"I wonder whether they've seen us," said he, at length. "No--'tain't
possible. The fog's too thick--and we're as invisible to them as they
are to us. Besides, these words show that they ain't thinkin' about
anybody but themselves. Well, all we've got to do is to keep as still
as a mouse, an' I'll jest go an' warn the boys."

With these words Zac moved softly away to warn his crew. First he
went to Terry, and informed him that the whole fleet of France was
around the Parson, and that their only chance of safety was to keep
silent--a piece of information which effectually stopped Terry's
singing and whistling for some time; then he told Biler, in a
friendly way, that if he spoke above a whisper, or made any noise,
he'd pitch him overboard with an anchor tied to his neck. Then he
warned Jericho. As for Père Michel, he felt that warning was
unnecessary, for the priest was too absorbed in his book to be
conscious of the external world. After this, he came back to Claude,
who had been listening ever since he left, but without hearing
anything more.

"We must have drifted nearer together," said Zac. "The voice was a
good deal louder than when I fust heerd it. My only hope is, that
they'll drift past us, an' we'll git further away from them. But I
wonder what they meant by bringin' her head around. P'aps they've
seen us, after all--an' then, again, p'aps they haven't."

He said this in a whisper, and Clause answered in another whisper.

"It seems to me," said Claude, "that if they'd seen us, they'd have
said something more--or at any rate, they'd have made more noise. But
as it is, they've been perfectly silent."

"Wal--I on'y hope we won't hear anythin' more of them."

For more than two hours silence was observed on board the Parson.
Terry stopped all whistling, and occupied himself with scratching his
bullet head. The priest sat motionless, reading his book. Jericho
drew the unhappy Biler down below for safe keeping, and detained him
there a melancholy prisoner. Claude and Zac stood listening, but
nothing more was heard.

To Claude there seemed something weird and ghostly in this
incident--a voice thus sounding suddenly forth out of nothingness,
and then dying away into the silence from which it had emerged: there
was that in it which made him feel a sensation of involuntary awe;
and the longer the silence continued, the more did this incident
surround itself with a certain supernatural element, until, at
length, he began to fancy that his senses might have deceived him.
Yet he knew this had not been the case. Zac had heard the voice as
well as he, and the words to him had been perfectly plain. _Put her
head a little over this way_! Singular words, too, they seemed to be,
as he turned them over in his mind. Under other circumstances they
might have been regarded as perfectly commonplace, but now the
surroundings gave them the possibility of a varied interpretation.
Who was the "her"? What was meant? Was it a ship or a woman? What
could the meaning be? Or, again, might not this have been some
supernatural voice speaking to them from the Unseen, and conveying to
them some sentence either of good or evil omen, giving them some
direction, perhaps, about the course of the schooner in which he was?

Not that Claude was what is called a superstitious man. From ordinary
superstition he was, indeed, quite as free as any man of his age or
epoch; not was he even influenced by any of the common superstitious
fancies then prevalent. But still there is a natural belief in the
unseen which prevails among all men, and Claude's fancy was busy,
being stimulated by this incident, so that, as he endeavored to
account for it, he was as easily drawn towards a supernatural theory
as to a natural one. Hundreds of miles from land, on the broad ocean,
a voice had sounded from behind the impenetrable cloud, and it was
scarcely to be wondered at that he considered it something unearthly.

Under other circumstances Zac might also have yielded to
superstitious fancies; but as it was, his mind had been too
completely filled with the one absorbing idea of the French fleet to
find room for any other thought. It was not an unsubstantial ghost
which Zac dreaded, but the too substantial form of some frigate
looming through the fog, and firing a gun to bring him on board.
Every additional moment of silence gave him a feeling of relief, for
he felt that these moments, as they passed, drew him away farther
from the danger that had been so near.

At length a new turn came to the current of affairs. A puff of wind
suddenly filled the sails, and at its first breath Zac started up
with a low chuckle.

"I'd give ten guineas," said he, "for one good hooray--I would, by
George! But bein' as it is, I'll postpone that till I haul off a few
miles from this."

"Why, what's the matter?" said Claude, rousing himself out of
abstraction.

"Matter?" repeated Zac. "Why, the wind's hauled round to the
nor'west, and the fog's goin' to lift, an' the Parson's goin' to show
her heels."

With these words, Zac hurried to the tiller, which he took from the
smiling Terry, and began to being the vessel around to run her before
the wind.

"Don't care a darn whar I go jest now," said he, "so's I on'y put a
mile or two between us and the Frenchman. Arter that we can shape our
course satisfactory."

And now the wind, which had thus turned, blew more steadily till it
became a sustained breeze of sufficient strength to carry the
schooner, with very satisfactory speed, out of the unpleasant
proximity to the Frenchman. And as it blew, the clouds lessened, and
the circle of fog which had surrounded them was every moment removed
to a greater distance, while the view over the water grew wider and
clearer. All this was inexpressibly delightful to Zac, who, as it
were, with one bound passed from the depths of despondency up to
joyousness and hope.

But suddenly a sight appeared which filled him with amazement, a
sight which attracted all his thoughts, and in an instant changed all
his feelings and plans. It was a sight which had become revealed on
the dispersion of the fog, showing itself to their wondering eyes out
there upon the sea astern, in the place where they had been looking
for that French cruiser, which Zac had feared.

No French cruiser was it that they saw, no ship of war with a hostile
flag and hostile arms, no sight of fear; but a sight full of infinite
pathos and sadness--a pitiable, a melancholy sight. It was about half
a mile behind them, for that was about the distance which they had
traversed since the wind had changed and the schooner's direction had
been altered.

It seemed at first like a black spot on the water, such as a
projection rock or a floating spar; but as the fog faded away the
object became more perceptible. Then they could see human figures,
some of whom were erect, and others lying down. They were on what
seemed to be a sort of raft, and the whole attitude of the little
group showed most plainly that they had suffered shipwreck, and were
here now floating about helplessly, and at the mercy of the tide, far
out at sea. Moreover, these had already seen the schooner, for they
were waving their arms and gesticulating wildly.

One glance was enough for both Zac and Claude, and then the
exclamation which they gave drew there the attention of all the
others. The priest looked up, and putting his book back in his
pocket, walked towards them, while Terry gave one swift look, and
then disappeared below.

"Quick wid ye," he called to Jericho; "put on a couple of barls o'
taters to bile. There's a shipwrecked raft afloat out there beyant,
an' they're all dyin' or dead av starvation, so they are."

"O, you jes go long wid yer nonsensical tomfoolery," said Jericho.

"Tomfoolery, is it? Go up, thin, an' luk for yerself," cried Terry,
who bounded up on deck again, and began to prepare for action. At
this Jericho put on his nose an enormous pair of spectacles, and thus
equipped climbed upon deck, followed closely by the melancholy Biler,
who devoured a carrot as he went up.

By this time Zac had brought the Parson's head round once more, and
steered for the raft, calling out to Terry to get the boat afloat.
Terry and Jerry then went to work, assisted by Biler, and soon the
boat was in the water.

"Ef I hadn't ben sich a darned donkey," said Zac, in a tone of
vexation, "I might have got at 'em before an' saved them all these
hours of extra starvation. Ef I'd only yelled back when I fust heerd
the voice! Who knows but that some of 'em hev died in the time that's
ben lost?"

"Can't we run alongside without the boat?" asked Claude.

"Wal, yes," said Zac; "but then, you know, we couldn't stay alongside
when we got that, an' so we've got to take 'em off with the boat the
best way we can."

They were not long in retracing their way, and soon came near enough.
Zac then gave up the tiller to Terry, telling him to keep as near as
possible. He then got into the boat, and Claude followed, by Zac's
invitation, as well as his own urgent request. Each took an oar, and
after a few strokes, they were up to the raft. The raft was on a
level with the water and was barely able to sustain the weight of
those who had found refuge on it. It seemed like the poop or round
house of some ship which had been beaten off by the fury of the
waves, and had afterwards been resorted to by those who now clung to
it.

The occupants of the raft were, indeed, a melancholy group. They were
seven in number. Of these, two were common seamen; a third looked
like a ship's officer, and wore the uniform of a second lieutenant;
the fourth was a gentleman, who seemed about forty years of age.
These four were standing, and as the boat approached them they gave
utterance to every possible cry of joy and gratitude. But it was the
other three occupants of the raft that most excited the attention of
Claude and Zac.

An old man was seated there, with thin, emaciated frame, and
snow-white hair. He was holding in his arms a young girl, while
beside her knelt another young girl who seemed like the attendant of
the first, and both the old man and the maid were most solicitous in
their attentions. The object of these attentions was exquisitely
beautiful. Her slender frame seemed to have been worn by long
privation, and weakened by famine and exposure. Her face was pale and
wan, but still showed the rounded outlines of youth. Her hair was all
dishevelled, as though it had been long the sport of the rude tempest
and the ocean billow, and hung in disordered masses over her head and
shoulders. Her dress, though saturated with wet from the sea and the
fog, was of rich material, and showed her to belong to lofty rank;
while the costume of the old man indicated the same high social
position. The young lady was not senseless, but only weak, perhaps
from sudden excitement. As she reclined in the old man's arms, her
eyes were fixed upon the open boat; and Claude, as he turned to grasp
the raft, caught her full gaze fixed upon him, with a glance from her
large dark eyes that thrilled through him, full of unutterable
gratitude. Her lips moved, not a word escaped, but tears more
eloquent than words rolled slowly down.

Such was the sight that greeted Claude as he stepped from the boat
upon the raft. In an instant he was caught in the embraces of the
men, who, frenzied with joy at the approach of deliverance, flung
themselves upon him. But Claude had no eyes for any one but the
lovely young girl, whose gaze of speechless gratitude was never
removed from him.

"Messieurs," said Claude, who knew them to be French, and addressed
them in their own language, "you shall all be saved; but we cannot
all go at once; we must save the weakest first; and will, therefore,
take these now, and come back for you afterwards."


Saying this, he stooped down so to raise the young lady in his arms,
and carry her aboard. The old man held her up, uttering inarticulate
murmurs, that sounded like blessings on their deliverer. Claude
lifted the girl as though she had been a child, and stepped towards
the boat. Zac was already on the raft, and held the boat, while
Claude stepped aboard. The old man then tried to rise and follow,
assisted by the maid, but, after one or two efforts, sank back,
incapable of keeping his feet. Upon this Zac flung the rope to the
French lieutenant, and walked over to the old man. Claude now had
returned, having left the girl in the stern of the boat.

"Look here," said Zac, as he came up; "the old gentleman can't walk.
You'd best carry him aboard, and I'll carry the gal."

With these words Zac turned towards the maid; she looked up at him
with a shy glance and showed such a pretty face, such black eyes and
smiling lips, that Zac for a moment hesitated, feeling quite
paralyzed by an overflow of bashfulness. But it was not a time to
stand on ceremony; and so honest Zac, without more ado, seized the
girl in his arms, and bore her to the boat, where he deposited her
carefully by the side of the other. Claude now followed, carrying the
old man, whom he placed beside the young lady, so that he and the
maid could support her as before. There was yet room for one more,
and the gentleman still on the raft came forward at Claude's
invitation, and took his place in the bows. The rest waited on the
raft. The boat then returned to the schooner, which now had come very
close. Here Claude lifted the lady high in the air, and Père Michel
took her from his arms. Claude then got on board the schooner, and
took her to the cabin, where he laid her on a couch. Zac then lifted
up the maid, who was helped on board by Père Michel, where Claude met
her, and took her to the cabin. Zac then lifted up the old man, and
Père Michel stood ready to receive him also.

And now a singular incident occurred. As Zac raised the old man, Père
Michel caught sight of the face, and regarded it distinctly. The old
man's eyes were half closed, and he took no notice of anything; but
there was something in that face which produced a profound impression
on Père Michel. He stood rigid, as though rooted to the spot, looking
at the old man with a fixed stare. Then his arms sank down, his head
also fell forward, and turning abruptly away, he walked forward to
the bows. Upon this Jericho came forward; and he it was who lifted
the old man on board and assisted him to the cabin.

After this, the other gentleman got on board, and then the boat
returned and took off the other occupants of the raft.




CHAPTER III.

NEW FRIENDS.

Every arrangement was made that could be made within the confines of
a small schooner to secure the comfort of the strangers. To the young
lady and her maid Claude gave up the state-room which he himself had
thus far occupied, and which was the best on board, while Zac gave up
his to the old man. The others were all comfortably disposed of, and
Zac and Claude stowed themselves away as best they could feeling
indifferent about themselves as long as they could minister to the
wants of their guests. Food and sleep were the things that were the
most needed by all these new-comers, and these they had in abundance.
Under the beneficial effects of these, they began to regain their
strength. The seaman rallied first, as was most natural; and from
these Claude learned the story of their misfortunes.

The lost ship had been the French frigate Arethuse, which had left
Brest about a moth previously, on a voyage to Louisbourg and Quebec.
The old  gentleman was the Comte de Laborde, and the two girls whom
they had saved, one was his daughter, and the other her maid. The
other gentleman was the Comte de Cazeneau. This last was on his way
to Louisbourg, where an important post was awaiting him. About a week
before this the Arethuse had encountered a severe gale, accompanied
by a dense fog, in which they had lost their reckoning. To add to
their miseries, they found themselves surrounded by icebergs, among
which navigation was so difficult that the seamen all became
demoralized. At length the ship struck one of these floating masses,
and instantly began to fill. The desperate efforts of the crew,
however, served to keep her afloat for another day, and might have
saved her, had it not been for the continuation of the fog. On the
following night, in the midst of intense darkness, she once more
struck against an iceberg, and this time the consequences were more
serious. A huge fragment of ice fell upon the poop, shattering it and
sweeping it overboard. In an instant all discipline was at an end. It
was _sauve qui peut_. The crew took to the boats. One of these went
down with all on board, while the others passed away into the
darkness. This little handful had thrown themselves upon the ship's
poop, which was floating alongside within reach, just in time to
escape being dragged down by the sinking ship; and there, for days
and nights, with scarcely any food, and no shelter whatever, they had
drifted amid the dense fog, until all hope had died out utterly. Such
had been their situation when rescue came.

Claude, upon hearing this story, expressed a sympathy which was most
sincere; and to the seamen it was all the pleasanter as his accent
showed him to be a countryman. But the general sympathy which the
young man felt, sincere though it was, could not be compared with
that special sympathy which he experienced for the lovely young girl
whom he had borne from the raft into the schooner, and whose deep
glance of speechless gratitude had never since faded from his memory.
She was now aboard, and was occupying his own room. More than this,
she had already taken up a position within his mind which was a
pre-eminent one. She had driven out every thought of everything else.
The highest desire which he had was to see once again that face which
had become so vividly impressed upon his memory, and find out what it
might be like in less anxious moments. But for this he would have to
wait.

Meanwhile the schooner had resumed her voyage, in which, however, she
made but slow progress. The wind, which had come up so opportunely,
died out again; and, though the fog had gone, still for a few days
they did little else than drift.

After the first day and night the Count de Laborde came upon deck. He
was extremely feeble, and had great difficulty in walking; with him
were his daughter and her maid. Although her exhaustion and
prostration on the raft had, apparently, been even greater than his,
yet youth was on her side, and she had been able to rally much more
rapidly. She and her maid supported the feeble old count, and
anxiously anticipated his wants with the fondest care.

Claude had hoped for this appearance, and was not disappointed. He
had seen her first as she was emerging from the valley of the shadow
of death, with the stamp of sorrow and despair upon her features; but
now no trace of despair remained; her face was sweet and joyous
beyond expression, with the grace of a child-like innocence and
purity. The other passenger, whom the lieutenant of the Arethuse had
called the Count de Cazeneau, was also on deck, and, on seeing
Laborde and his daughter, he hastened towards them with the utmost
fervor of congratulations. The lieutenant also went to pay his
respects. The young countess was most gracious, thanking them for
their good wishes, and assuring them that she was as well as ever;
and then her eyes wandered away, and, after a brief interval, at
length rested with a fixed and earnest look full upon Claude. The
glance thrilled through him. For a moment he stood as if fixed to the
spot; but at length, mastering his emotion, he went towards her.

"Here he is, papa, dearest," said she,--"our noble deliverer.--And,
O, monsieur, how can we ever find words to thank you?"

"Dear monsieur," said the old count, embracing Claude, "Heaven will
reward you; our words are useless.--Mimi," he continued, turning to
his daughter, "your dream was a true one.--You must know, monsieur,
that she dreamed that a young Frenchman came in an open boat to save
us. And so it really was."

Mimi smiled and blushed.

"Ah, papa, dear," she said, "I dreamed because I hoped. I always
hoped, but you always desponded. And now it has been better than our
hopes.--But, monsieur, may we not know the name of our deliverer?"

She held out her little hand as she said this. Claude raised it
respectfully to his lips, bowing low as he did so. He then gave his
name, but hastened to assure them that he was not their preserver,
insisting that Zac had the better claim to that title. To this,
however, the others listened with polite incredulity, and Mimi
evidently considered it all the mere expression of a young man's
modesty. She waved her little hand with a sunny smile.

"_Eh bien_," she said, "I see, monsieur, it pains you to have people
too grateful; so we will say no more about it. We must satisfy
ourselves by remembering and by praying."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the interposition of the
Count de Cazeneau, who came forward to add his thanks to those of
Laborde. He made a little set speech, to which Claude listened with
something of chagrin, for he did not like being placed in the
position of general savior and preserver, when he knew that Zac
deserved quite as much credit for what had been done as he did. This
was not unobserved by Mimi, who appreciated his feelings and came to
his relief.

"M. Motier does not like being praised," said she. "Let us respect
his delicacy."

But Cazeneau was not to be stopped so easily. He seemed like one who
had prepared a speech carefully and with much labor, and was,
accordingly, bound to give it all; so Claude was forced to listen to
an eloquent and inflated panegyric about himself and his heroism,
without being able to offer anything more than an occasional modest
disclaimer. And all the time the deep, dark glance of Mimi was fixed
on him, as though she would read his soul. If, indeed, he had any
skill in reading character, it was easy enough to see in the face of
that young man a pure, a lofty, and a generous nature, unsullied by
anything mean or low, a guileless and earnest heart, a soul _sans
peur et sans reproche_; and it did seem by the expression of her own
face as though she had read all this in Claude.

Further conversation of a general nature followed, which served to
explain the position of all of them with reference to one another.
Claude was the virtual master of the schooner, since he had chartered
it for his own purposes. To all of them, therefore, he seemed first
their savior, and secondly their host and entertainer, to whom they
were bound to feel chiefly grateful. Yet none the less did they
endeavor to include the honest skipper in their gratitude; and Zac
came in for a large share of it. Though he could not understand any
of the words which they addressed to him, yet he was easily able to
guess what they were driving at, and so he modestly disclaimed it all
with the expression,--

"O, sho! sho, now! sho, sho!"

They now learned that Claude was on his way to Louisbourg, and that
they would thus be able to reach their original destination. They
also learned the circumstances of Zac, and his peculiar unwillingness
to trust his schooner inside the harbor of Louisbourg. Zac's scruples
were respected by them, though they all declared that there was no
real danger. They were sufficiently satisfied to be able to reach any
point near Louisbourg, and did not seek to press Zac against his
will, or to change his opinion upon a point where it was so strongly
expressed.

No sooner had these new passengers thus unexpectedly appeared, than a
very marked change came over Père Michel, which to Claude was quite
inexplicable. To him and to Zac the good priest had thus far seemed
everything that was most amiable and companionable; but now, ever
since the moment when he had turned away at the sight of the face of
Laborde, he had grown strangely silent, and reticent, and
self-absorbed. Old Laborde had made advances which had been coldly
repelled. Cazeneau, also, had tried to draw him out, but without
success. To the lieutenant only was he at all inclined to unbend. Yet
this strange reserve did not last long, and at length Père Michel
regained his old manner, and received the advances of Laborde with
sufficient courtesy, while to Mimi he showed that paternal gentleness
which had already endeared him to Claude and to Zac.

Several days thus passed, during which but little progress was made.
The schooner seemed rather to drift than to sail. Whenever a slight
breeze would arise, it was sure to be adverse, and was not of long
duration. Then a calm would follow, and the schooner would lie idle
upon the bosom of the deep.

During these days Mimi steadily regained her strength; and the bloom
and the sprightliness of youth came back, and the roses began to
return to her cheeks, and her wan face resumed its plumpness, and her
eyes shone with the light of joyousness. Within the narrow confines
of a small schooner, Claude was thrown in her way more frequently
than could have been the case under other circumstances; and the
situation in which they were placed towards one another connected
them more closely, and formed a bond which made an easy way to
friendship, and even intimacy. As a matter of course, Claude found
her society pleasanter by far than that of any one else on board;
while, on the other hand, Mimi did not seem at all averse to his
companionship. She seemed desirous to know all about him.

"But, monsieur," she said once, in the course of a conversation, "it
seems strange to me that you have lived so long among the English
here in America."

"It is strange," said Claude; "and, to tell the truth, I don't
altogether understand myself how it has happened."

"Ah, you don't understand yourself how it has happened," repeated
Mimi, in a tone of voice that was evidently intended to elicit
further confidences.

"No," said Claude, who was not at all unwilling to receive her as his
confidante. "You see I was taken away from France when I was an
infant."

"When you were an infant!" said Mimi. "How very, very sad!" and
saying this, she turned her eyes, with a look full of deepest
commiseration, upon him. "And so, of course, you cannot remember
anything at all about France."

Claude shook his head.

"No, nothing at all," said he. "But I'm on my way there now; and I
hope to see it before long. It's the most beautiful country in all
the world--isn't it?'

"Beautiful!" exclaimed Mimi, throwing up her eyes; "there are no
words to describe it. It is heaven! Alas! how can I ever bear to live
here in this wild and savage wilderness of America!"

"You did not wish to leave France then?" said Claude, who felt
touched by this display of feeling.

"I!" exclaimed Mimi; "I wish to leave France! Alas, monsieur! it was
the very saddest day of all my life. But dear papa had to go, and I
do not know why it was. He offered to let me stay; but I could not
let him go alone, for he is so old and feeble, and I was willing to
endure all for his sake."

"What part of France did you live in?" asked Claude.

"Versailles."

"That is where the court is," said Claude.

"Of course," said Mimi, with a smile. "But how funny it seems to hear
a Frenchman make such a remark, and in such an uncertain way, as
though he did not feel quite sure. Why, monsieur, in France
Versailles is everything; Versailles is the king and court. In a
word, monsieur, Versailles is France."

"I suppose you saw very much of the splendor and magnificence of the
court?" said Claude.

"I!" said Mimi; "splendor and magnificence! the court! _Ma foi_,
monsieur, I did not see any of it at all. In France young girls are
kept close-guarded. You have lived among the English, and among them
I have heard that young girls can go anywhere and do anything. But
for my part I have always lived most secluded--sometimes at school,
and afterwards at home."

"How strange it is," said Claude, "that your father should leave
France, when he is so old and feeble, and take you, too, and come to
this wild country!"

"O, it is very strange," said Mimi, "and very sad; and I don't know
why in the world it was, for he will never tell me. Sometimes I think
that something unfortunate has happened, which has made him go into
exile this way. But then, if that were so, I don't see why he should
remain in French possessions. If his political enemies have driven
him away, he would not be safe in French colonies; and so I don't
know why in the world he ever left home."

"Does he intend to remain at Louisbourg, or go farther?" asked
Claude, after a thoughtful pause.

"I'm sure I don't know," said Mimi; "but I don't think he has decided
yet. It is just as if he was looking for something, and as if he
would travel about till he found it; though what it is that he wants
I can hardly tell. And such, monsieur, is our mournful position. We
may remain at Louisbourg a short time or a long time: it depends upon
circumstances. We may go to Quebec, or even to New Orleans."

"New Orleans!" exclaimed Claude.

"Yes; I heard him hint as much. And he said, also, that if he did go
as far as that, he would leave me at Quebec or Louisbourg. But I will
never consent to that, and I will go with him wherever he goes."

"I should think that such a roving life would make you feel very
unhappy."

"O, no; I am not unhappy," said Mimi, cheerfully. "I should, indeed,
feel unhappy if I were left behind in France, or anywhere else, and
if poor papa should go roaming about without any one to care for him.
I am not much; but I know that he loves me dearly, and that he is
very much happier with me than without me. And that is the reason why
I am determined to go with him wherever he goes,--yes, even if he
goes among the savages. Besides, while I am with him, he has a
certain amount of anxiety about me, and this distracts his thoughts,
and prevents him from brooding too much over his own personal
troubles. But O, how I envy you, Monsieur Motier, and O, how I should
love to be going back to France, if dear papa were only going there
too! I shall never be happy again, I know, never, till I am back
again in France."




CHAPTER IV.

MIMI AND MARGOT.


While Claude was doing the honors of hospitality to the guests aft,
the crew of the Parson was fraternizing with the seamen of the
wrecked Arethuse, forward. The first and most important act of
friendly intercourse was the work of Jericho, who put forth all his
skill in preparing for the half-starved sailors a series of repasts
upon which he lavished all his genius, together with the greater part
of the stores of the schooner. To these repasts the seamen did ample
justice, wasting but little time in unnecessary words, but eating as
only those can eat who have been on the borders of starvation. Yet it
may be questioned whether their voracity exceeded that of a certain
melancholy boy, who waited on the banquet, and whose appetite seemed
now even more insatiable in the midst of the abundant supplies which
Jericho produced, than it had been in former days, when eatables had
been less choice and repasts less frequent. In fact, Biler outdid
himself, and completely wore out the patience of the long-suffering
Jericho.

"You jes look heah, you Biler," he said; "you better mind, for I
ain't goin' to stand dese yer goins on no longer. Bar's limits to
eberyting--and dese yer 'visiums has got to be 'commonized, an' not
to be all gobbled up by one small boy. Tell you what, I got a great
mind to put you on a lowns, an' gib you one rore turnip a day, an' ef
you can ketch a fish I'll 'gree to cook it. Why, dar ain't de vessel
afloat dat can stand dis yer. You eat fifty-nine meals a day, an'
more. You nebber do notin' else but eat--morn', noon, an' night."

"Arrah, Jerry, let the b'y ate his fill," said Terry: "sure an' a
growin' b'y has to ate more'n a grown man, so as to get flesh to grow
wid."

"Can't do it," said Jerry, "an' won't do it. Didn't mind it so much
afore, but now we'se got to 'commonize. Bar's ebber so many more
moufs aboard now, an' all on 'em eat like sin. Dis yer calm keeps us
out heah in one spot, an' when we're ebber a goin' to get to de end
ov de vyge's more'n I can tell. No use frowin' away our val'ble
'visiums on dis yer boy--make him eat soap fat and oakum--good enough
for him. No 'casium for him to be eatin' a hundred times more'n all
de res ob us. If he wants to eat he'll hab to find his own 'visiums,
an' ketch a shark, an' I'll put it in pickle for he own private use."

With these words Jericho turned away with deep trouble and perplexity
visible on his ebon brow, and Biler, pocketing a few potatoes and
turnips, climbed to the mast-head, where he sat gazing in a
melancholy way into space.

To Terry these new comers were most welcome. At a distance he
professed to hate and despise the French; but now that they appeared
face to face, his hate was nowhere, and in its place there was
nothing but a most earnest desire to form an eternal friendship with
the shipwrecked seamen. There was certainly one difficulty in the way
which was of no slight character; and that was, that neither of them
knew the language of the other. But Terry was not easily daunted, and
the very presence of a difficulty was enough to make him feel eager
to triumph over it.

In his first approaches he made the very common mistake of addressing
the French sailors as though they were deaf. Thus he went up to them
one after the other, shaking hands with each, and shouting in their
ears as loud as he could, "_How do yez do_?" "_Good day_." "_The top
av the mornin' to yez_." To which the good-natured Frenchmen
responded in a sympathetic way, shaking his hand vigorously,--and
grinning and chattering. Terry kept this up for some time; but at
length it became somewhat monotonous, and he set his wits to work to
try to discover some more satisfactory mode of effecting a
communication with them. The next way that he thought of was
something like the first, and, like the first, is also frequently
resorted to by those who have occasion to speak to foreigners. It was
to address them in broken English, or rather in a species of baby
talk; for to Terry it seemed no more than natural that this sort of
dialect would be more intelligible than the speech of full-grown men.

Accordingly, as soon as Terry thought of this, he put it in practice.
He began by shaking hands once more, and then said to them, "Me
berry glad see you--me sposy you berry hundy. Polly want a cracker.
He sall hab penty mate den, so he sall. Did de naughty water boos um
den?"

But unfortunately this effort proved as much of a failure as the
other; so Terry was once more compolled to trust to his wits. Those
wits of his, being active, did not fail, indeed, to suggest many
ways, and of the best kind, by which he brought himself into
communication with his new friends. At the first repast he found this
out, and insisted upon passing everything to them with his own hands,
accompanying each friendly offer with an affectionate smile, which
went straight to the hearts of the forlorn and half-starved guests.
This was a language which was every way intelligible, the language of
universal humanity, in which the noblest precept is, to be kind to
enemies and to feed the hungry.

In addition to this, Terry also found out other ways of holding
communication with them, the chief of which was by the language of
song. Terry's irrepressible tendency to singing thus burst forth in
their presence, and after trolling out a few Irish melodies, he
succeeded in eliciting from them a sympathetic response in the shape
of some lively French songs. The result proved most delightful to all
concerned; and thereafter the muse of Ireland and the muse of France
kept up a perpetual antiphonal song, which beguiled many a tedious
hour.

While the various characters on board the schooner were thus entering
into communication with one another, Zac endeavored also to scrape an
acquaintance with one of the rescued party, who seemed to him to be
worth all the rest put together. This was Mimi's maid, Margot, a
beautiful little creature, full of life and spirit, and fit companion
for such a mistress as hers. The good little Margot was very
accessible, and had not failed to pour forth in language not very
intelligible her sense of gratitude to Zac. She had not forgotten
that it was Zac who had conveyed her in his strong arms from death to
life, and therefore persisted in regarding him not only as the
preserver of her own self, but as the real and only preserver of all
the others.

Margot had one advantage which was delightful to Zac; and that was,
she could speak a little English. She had once spent a year in
England, where she had picked up enough of the language to come and
go upon, and this knowledge now proved to be of very great advantage.

The calm weather which continued gave Zac many opportunities of
drifting away towards Margot, and talking with her, in which talks
they gradually grew to be better acquainted.

"I am so happy zat I spik Ingelis!" said Margot; "I nevar did sink
dat it was evare useful."

"An' pooty blamed lucky it's ben for me, too," said Zac, in a joyous
tone; "for as I don't know French, like Claude over there, I have to
trust to you to keep up the conversation."

"I not know mooch Ingelis," said Margot, "for I not understan de
mooch of what you say."

"O, you'll learn dreadful fast out here," said Zac.

"But I not weesh to stay here so long as to learn," said Margot.

"Not wish! Sho, now! Why, it's a better country than France."

"Than France--better!" cried Margot, lifting her hands and throwing
up her eyes in amazement. "France! Monsieur, France is a
heaven--mais--dees--dees--is different."

"Why, what's the matter with America?" said Zac.

"Amérique--eet ees all full of de sauvage--de Indian--de wild
men--an' wild beasts--an' desert."

"O, you ain't ben to Boston; that's clar," said Zac, mildly. "Jest
you wait till you see Boston; that's all."

"Boston! I nevare hear of Boston," said Margot, "till you tell me. I
do not believe eet it is more magnifique dan Paris."

"The most magnificent town in the hull world," said Zac, calmly. "You
take the House of Assembly an' Govement House--take King Street and
Queen Street, an' I'd like to know whar you'll find a better show any
whar on airth."

"Sais pas," said Margot; "nevare see Boston. Mais vous--you nevare
see Paris--so we are not able to compare."

"O, well, it's nat'ral enough for you," said Zac, with magnanimity,
"nat'ral enough for you, course, to like your own place
best--'twouldn't be nat'ral ef you didn't. All your friends live
thar, course. You were born thar, and I s'pose your pa an' ma may be
there now, anxiously expectin' to hear from you."

Zac put this in an interrogative way, for he wanted to know. But as
he said these words, the smiling face of Margot turned sad; she shook
her head, and said,--

"No; I have no one, no one!"

"What! no relatives!" said Zac, in a voice full of commiseration and
tender pity.

Margot shook her head.

"An' so you've got no father nor mother, an' you're a poor little
orphan girl!" said Zac, in a broken voice.

Margot shook her head, and looked sadder than over.

Tears came to Zac's eyes. He felt as he had never felt before. There
was something so inexpressibly touching about this orphan! He took
her little hand tenderly in his own great, brown, toil-worn fist, and
looked at her very wistfully. For a few moments he said nothing.
Margot looked up at him with her great brown eyes, and then looked
meekly at the deck. Zac heaved a deep sigh; then he placed his
disengaged hand solemnly upon her head.

"Wal," said he, gravely, "I'll protect you. Ef anybody ever harms
you, you jest come to me. I'll--I'll be--a father to you."

Again Margot looked up at him with her great brown eyes.

"O, dat's noting," she said. "I don't want you to be my fader. But,
all de same, I tink you one very nice man; an' you safe my life; an'
I sall not forget--nevare; an' I weesh--. Sall I tell you what I
weesh?"

"Yes, yes," said Zac, eagerly, with a strange thrill of excitement.

Margot threw a quick look around.

"Dees Monsieur de Cazeneau," said she, drawing nearer to Zac, and
speaking in a low, quick voice, "I 'fraid of heem. Dere is danjaire
for my mademoiselle. He is a bad man. He haf a plot--a plan. You moos
safe us. Dees Monsieur Motier is no good. You haf safe us from death;
you moos safe us from dees danjaire."

"How?" asked Zac, who took in at once the meaning of Margot's words,
though not fully understanding them.

"I will tell. Dess Monsieur de Cazeneau wish to get us to Louisbourg,
where he will ruin us all--dat is, de ole count and de mademoiselle.
You moos turn about, and take us to Boston."

"Take you to Boston! But this schooner is engaged to go to Louisbourg
with Mr. Motier."

Margot shook her head.

"You moos do it," said she, "or we sall be ruin. You moos tell
Monsieur Motier--"

Zac now began questioning her further; but Margot could not remain
any longer; she therefore hurried away, with the promise to see him
again and explain more about it; and Zac was left alone with his own
thoughts, not knowing exactly what he could say to Claude, or how he
could make up, out of Margot's scanty information, a story which
might offer sufficient ground for a change in the purpose of the
voyage.

Meanwhile Claude had seen Mimi at various times, and had conversed
with her, as before, in a very confidential manner. The danger of
which Margot had spoken was present in Mimi's thoughts, also; and she
was anxious to secure Claude's assistance.

Thus it was that Mimi communicated to Claude all about her personal
affairs. There was something almost childish in this ready
communicativeness; but she knew no reason for concealing anything,
and therefore was thus frank and outspoken. Claude, also, was quite
as willing to tell all about himself; though his own story was
somewhat more involved, and could not be told piecemeal, but required
a longer and more elaborate explanation.

"Have you many friends in France?" asked Mimi, in an abrupt sort of
way, the next time they met.

"Friends in France?" repeated Claude; "not one, that I know of."

"No friends! Then what can you do there?" she asked, innocently.

"Well, I don't know yet," said he. "I will see when I get there. The
fact is, I am going there to find out something about my own
family--my parents and myself."

At this Mimi fastened her large eyes upon Claude with intense
interest.

"How strangely you talk!" said she.

"I'll tell you a secret," said Claude, after a pause.

"What?" she asked.

"You will never tell it to any one? It's very important."

"I tell it?" repeated Mimi; "I! Never. Of course not. So, now, what
is the secret?"

"Well, it's this: my name is not Motier."

"Well," said Mimi, "I'm sure I'm very glad that it isn't; and it
seemed strange when you told me first, for Motier is a plebeian name;
and you certainly are no plebeian."

"I am not a plebeian," said Claude, proudly. "You are right. My name
is one of the noblest in France. I wonder if you can tell me what I
want to know!"

"I! Why, how can I?" said Mimi. "But I should so like to know what
it is that you want to know! And O, monsieur, I should so love to
know what is your real name and family!"

"Well," said Claude, "I don't as yet know much about it myself. But I
do know what my real name is. I am the Count de Montresor."

"Montresor," exclaimed Mimi, "Montresor!"

As she said this, there was an evident agitation in her voice and
manner which did not escape Claude.

"What's the matter?" said he. "You know something. Tell me what it
is! O, tell me!"

Mimi looked at him very earnestly.

"I don't know," said she; "I don't know anything at all. I only know
this, that poor papa's troubles are connected in some way with some
one whose name is Montresor. But his troubles are a thing that I am
afraid to speak about, and therefore I have never found out anything
about them. So I don't know anything about Montresor, more than this.
And the trouble is something terrible, I know," continued Mimi, "for
it has forced him, at his time of life, to leave his home and become
an exile. And I'm afraid--that is, I imagine--that he himself has
done some wrong in his early life to some Montresor. But I'm afraid
to ask him; and I think now that the sole object of his journey is to
atone for this wrong that he has done. And O, monsieur, now that you
tell your name, now that you say how you have been living here all
your life, I have a fearful suspicion that my papa has been the cause
of it. Montrosor! How strange!"

Mimi was very much agitated; so much so, indeed, that Claude repented
having told her this. But it was now too late to repent, and he could
only try to find some way of remedying the evil.

"Suppose I go to your father," said he, "and tell him who I am, and
all about myself."

"No, no," cried Mimi, earnestly; "do not! O, do not! I would not have
you for worlds. My hope is, that he may give up his search and go
home again, and find peace. There is nothing that you can do. What it
is that troubles him I don't know; but it was something that took
place before you or I were born--many, many years ago. You can do
nothing. You would only trouble him the more. If he has done wrong to
you or yours, you would only make his remorse the worse, for he would
see in you one whom his acts have made an exile."

"O, nonsense!" said Claude, cheerily; "I haven't been anything of the
kind. For my part, I've lived a very happy life indeed; and it's only
of late that I found out my real name. I'll tell you all about it
some time, and then you'll understand better. As to anybody feeling
remorse about my life, that's all nonsense. I consider my life rather
an enviable one thus far."

At this Mimi's agitation left her, and she grew calm again. She
looked at Claude with a glance of deep gratitude, and said,--

"O, how glad, how very glad, I am to hear you say that! Perhaps you
may be able yet to tell that to my dear papa. But still, I do not
wish you to say anything to him at all till I may find some time when
you may do it safely. And you will promise me--will you not?--that
you will keep this a secret from him till he is able to bear it."

"Promise? Of course," said Claude.

She held out her hand, and Claude took it and carried it to his lips.
They had been sitting at the bows of the schooner during this
conversation. No one was near, and they had been undisturbed.




CHAPTER V.

A STRANGE REVELATION.


The old Count Laborde had been too much weakened by suffering and
privation to recover very rapidly. For a few days he spent most of
his time reclining upon a couch in the little cabin, where Mimi
devoted herself to him with the tenderest care. At times she would
come upon deck at the urgent request of her father, and then Claude
would devote himself to her with still more tender care. The old man
did not take much notice of surrounding things. He lay most of the
time with his eyes closed, in a half-dreamy state, and it was only
with an effort that he was able to rouse himself to speak. He took no
notice whatever of any one but his daughter. Cazeneau made several
efforts to engage his attention, but he could not be roused.

Thus there were short intervals, on successive days, when Claude was
able to devote himself to Mimi, for the laudable purpose of beguiling
the time which he thought must hang heavy on her hands. He considered
that as he was in some sort the master of the schooner, these
strangers were all his guests, and he was therefore bound by the
sacred laws of hospitality to make it as pleasant for them as
possible. Of course, also, it was necessary that he should exert his
hospitable powers most chiefly for the benefit of the lady; and this
necessity he followed up with very great spirit and assiduity.

By the conversation which he had already had with her, it will be
seen that they had made rapid advances towards intimacy. Claude was
eager to extend this advance still farther, to take her still more
into his confidence, and induce her to take him into hers. He was
very eager to tell her all about himself, and the nature of his
present voyage; he was still more eager to learn from her all that
she might know about the Montresor family. And thus he was ever on
the lookout for her appearance on deck.

These appearances were not so frequent as he desired; but Mimi's
devotion to her father kept her below most of the time. At such times
Claude did the agreeable to the other passengers, with varying
success. With the lieutenant he succeeded in ingratiating himself
very rapidly; but with Cazeneau all his efforts proved futile. There
was about this man a sullen reserve and _hauteur_ which made
conversation difficult and friendship impossible. Claude was full of
_bonhomie_, good-nature generally, and sociability; but Cazeneau was
more than he could endure; so that, after a few attempts, he retired,
baffled, vexed at what he considered the other's aristocratic pride.
What was more noticed by him now, was the fact that Père Michel had
grown more reserved with him; not that there was any visible change
in the good priest's friendly manner, but he seemed pro-occupied and
strangely self-absorbed. And so things went on.

Meantime the schooner can hardly be said to have gone on at all. What
with light head winds, and currents, and calms, her progress was but
slow. This state of things was very irritating to Zac, who began to
mutter something about these rascally Moosoos bringing bad luck, and
"he'd be darned if he wouldn't like to know where in blamenation it
was all going to end." But as Claude was no longer so good a listener
as he used to be, Zac grew tired of talking to empty space, and
finally held his peace. The winds and tides, and the delay, however,
made no difference with Claude, nor did it interfere in the slightest
with his self-content and self-complacency. In fact, he looked as
though he rather enjoyed the situation; and this was not the least
aggravating thing in the surroundings to the mind of the impatient
skipper.

Thus several days passed, and at length Claude had an opportunity of
drawing Mimi into another somewhat protracted conversation.

"I am very much obliged to you," said Claude, gayly, "for making your
appearance. I have been trying to do the agreeable to your shipmate
Cazeneau, but without success. Is he always so amiable? and is he a
friend of yours?"

Mimi looked at Claude with a very serious expression as he said this,
and was silent for a few minutes.

"He is a friend of papa's," said she at last. "He came out with us--"

"Is he a great friend of yours?" asked Claude.

Mimi hesitated for a moment, and then said,--

"No; I do not like him at all."

Claude drew a long breath.

"Nor do I," said he.

"Perhaps I am doing him injustice," said Mimi, "but I cannot help
feeling as though he is in some way connected with dear papa's
troubles. I do not mean to say that he is the cause of them. I merely
mean that, as far as I know anything about them, it is always in such
a way that he seems mixed up with them. And I don't think, either,
that his face is very much in his favor, for there is something so
harsh and cruel in his expression, that I always wish that papa had
chosen some different kind of a person for his friend and confidant."

"Is he all that?" asked Claude.

"O, I suppose so," said Mimi. "They have secrets together, and make,
together, plans that I know nothing about."

"Do you suppose," asked Claude, "that you will ever be in any way
connected with their plans?"

He put this question, which was a general one, in a very peculiar
tone, which indicated some deeper meaning. It seemed as though Mimi
understood him, for she threw at him a hurried and half-frightened
look.

"Why?" she asked. "What makes you ask such a question as that?"

"O, I don't know," said Claude. "The thought merely entered my
mind--perhaps because I dislike him, and suspect him, and am ready to
imagine all kinds of evil about him."

Mimi regarded him now with a very earnest look, and said nothing for
some time.

"Have you any recollection," she asked, at length, "of ever having
seen his face anywhere, at any time, very long ago?"

Claude shook his head.

"Not the slightest," said he. "I never saw him in all my life, or any
one like him, till I saw him on the raft. But what makes you ask so
strange a question?"

"I hardly know," said Mimi, "except that he seems so in papa's
confidence,--and I know that papa's chief trouble arises from some
affair that he had with some Montresor,--and I thought--well, I'll
tell you what I thought. I thought that, as this Montresor had to
leave France--that perhaps he had been followed to America, or sought
after; and, as you are a member of that family, you might have seen
some of those who were watching the family; and the Count do Cazeneau
seemed to be one who might be connected with it. But I'm afraid I'm
speaking in rather a confused way; and no wonder, for I hardly know
what it is that I do really suspect."

"O, I understand," said Claude; "you suspect that my father was
badly treated, and had to leave France, and that this man was at the
bottom of it. Well, I dare say he was, and that he is quite capable
of any piece of villany; but as to his hunting us in America, I can
acquit him of that charge, as far as my experience goes, for I never
saw him, and never heard of any one ever being on our track. But
can't you tell me something more definite about it? Can't you tell me
exactly what you know?"

Mimi shook her head.

"I don't know anything," said she, "except what little I told
you--that poor papa's trouble of mind comes from some wrong which he
did to some Montresor, who had to go to America. And you may not be
connected with that Montresor, after all; but I'm afraid you must be,
and that--you--will have to be--poor papa's--enemy."

"Never!" said Claude, vehemently; "never! not if your
father--Whatever has happened, I will let it pass--so far as I am
concerned."

"O, you don't know what it is that has happened."

"Neither do you, for that matter; so there now; and for my part I
don't want to know, and I won't try to find out, if you think I'd
better not."

"I don't dare to think anything about it; I only know that a good son
has duties towards his parents, and that he must devote his life to
the vindication of their honor."

"Undoubtedly," said Claude, placidly; "but as it happens my parents
have never communicated to me any story of any wrongs of theirs, I
know very little about them. They never desired that I should
investigate their lives; and, as I have never heard of any wrongs
which they suffered, I don't see how I can go about to vindicate
their honor. I have, by the merest chance, come upon something which
excited my curiosity, and made me anxious to know something more. I
have had no deeper feeling than curiosity; and if you think that my
search will make me an enemy of your father, I hereby give up the
search, and decline to pursue it any farther. In fact, I'll fall back
upon my old name and rank, and become plain Claude Motier."

Claude tried to speak in an off-hand tone; but his assumed
indifference could not conceal the deep devotion of the look which he
gave to Mimi, or the profound emotion which was in his heart. It was
for her sake that he thus offered to relinquish his purpose. She knew
it and felt it.

"I'm sure," said she, "I don't know what to say to that. I'm afraid
to say anything. I don't know what may happen yet; you may at any
time find out something which would break through all your
indifference, and fill you with a thirst for vengeance. I don't know,
and you don't know, what may be--before us. So don't make any rash
offers, but merely do as I asked you before; and that is,--while papa
is here,--refrain from mentioning this subject to him. It is simply
for the sake of his--his peace of mind--and--and--his health. I know
it will excite him so dreadfully--that I tremble for the result."

"O, of course," said Claude, "I promise, as I did before. You needn't
be at all afraid."

"Would you have any objection," she asked, after a short silence, "to
tell me how much you do really know?"

"Of course not," said Claude, with his usual frankness. "I'll tell
you the whole story. There isn't much of it. I always believed myself
to be the son of Jean Motier, until a short time ago. We lived near
Boston, a place that you, perhaps, have heard of. He was always
careful to give me the best education that could be had in a colony,
and particularly in all the accomplishments of a gentleman. We were
both very happy, and lived very well, and I called him father, and he
called me son; and so things went on until a few weeks ago. I went
off hunting with some British officers, and on my return found the
old man dying. The shock to me was a terrible one. At that time I
believed that it was my father that I was losing. What made it worse,
was the evident fact that there was something on his mind, something
that he was longing to tell me; but he could not collect his
thoughts, and he could only speak a few broken words. He kept
muttering, '_Mon trésor_, _Mon trésor_;' but I thought it was merely
some loving words of endearment to me, and did not imagine what they
really meant. Still I saw that there was something on his mind, and
that he died without being able to tell it."

Claude paused for a moment, quite overcome by his recollections, and
Mimi's large dark eyes filled with tears in her deep sympathy with
his sorrows.

"Well," said Claude, regaining his composure with an effort, "I'll go
on. As soon as he was buried I began to search the papers, partly to
see how the business was, and how I was situated in the world; but
more for the sake of trying to find out what this secret could be.
There was an old cabinet filled with papers and parcels, and here I
began my search. For a long time I found nothing but old business
letters and receipts; but at last I found some religious books--with
a name written in them. The name was Louise de Montresor. Well, no
sooner had I seen this than I at once recollected the words of my
father, as I supposed him, which I thought words of
endearment--Montresor, Montresor. I saw now that it was the name of a
person--of a woman; so this excited me greatly, and I continued the
search with greater ardor.

"After a while I came to a drawer in which was a quantity of gold
coins, amounting to over a hundred guineas. In this same drawer was a
gold watch; on the back of it were engraved the letters L. D. M.,
showing that it was evidently the property of this Louise de
Montresor. A gold chain was connected with it, upon which was
fastened a seal. On this was engraved a griffin rampant, with the
motto, _Noblesse oblige_.

"Well, after this I found another drawer, in which were several
lady's ornaments, and among them was a package carefully wrapped up.
On opening it I found the miniature portrait of a lady, and this lady
was the same Louise de Montresor, for her name was written on the
back."

"Have you it now?" asked Mimi, with intense interest.

"Yes," said Claude; "and I'll show it to you some time. But I have
something else to show you just now. Wait a minute, and I'll explain.
After I found the portrait, I went on searching, and came to another
package. On opening this I found some papers which seemed totally
different from anything I had seen as yet. The ink was faded; the
writing was a plain, bold hand; and now I'll let you read this for
yourself; and you'll know as much as I do."

Saying this, Claude produced from his pocket a paper, which he opened
and handed to Mimi. It was a sheet of foolscap, written on three
sides, in a plain, bold hand. The ink was quite faded. As Mimi took
the paper, her hand trembled with excitement, and over her face there
came a sudden anxious, half-frightened look, as though she dreaded to
make herself acquainted with the contents of this old document.

After a moment's hesitation she mustered up her resolution, and began
to read. It was as follows:--


"QUEBEC, June 10, 1725.

"Instructions to Jean Motier with reference to my son, Claude de
Montresor, and my property.

"As I do not know how long I shall be absent, I think it better to
leave directions about my son, which may be your guide in the event
of my death. I must stay away long enough to enable me to overcome
the grief that I feel. Long, long indeed, must it be before I shall
feel able to settle in any one place. The death of my dearest wife,
Louise, has left me desolate beyond expression, and there is no home
for me any more on earth, since she has gone.

"I have property enough for you to bring up Claude as a gentleman. I
wish him to have the best education which he can get in the colonies.
I do not wish him to know about his family and the past history of
his unhappy parents until he shall be old enough to judge for
himself. In any case, I should wish him not to think of France. Let
him content himself in America. It is done. In France there is no
redress. The government is hopelessly corrupt, and there is no
possibility of wrong being righted. Besides, the laws against the
Huguenots are in full force, and he can never live with his mother's
enemies. I revere the sacred memory of my Huguenot wife, and curse
the knaves and fanatics who wronged her and cast her out; yet I thank
God that I was able to save her from the horrible fate that awaited
her.

"I wish my son, therefore, to know nothing of France, at least until
he shall be of age, and his own master; and even then I should wish
him never to go there. Let him content himself in the colonies. For
how could he ever redeem the position which is lost? or how could he
hope to face the powerful and unscrupulous enemies who have wrought
my ruin; the false friend who betrayed me; his base and infernal
accomplice; the ungrateful government which did such foul wrong to a
loyal servant? All is lost. The estates are confiscated. The unjust
deed can never be undone. Let my son, therefore, resign himself to
fate, and be content with the position in which he may find himself.

"The property will be sufficient to maintain him in comfort and
independence. Here he will have all that he may want; here the church
will give him her consolations without bigotry, or fanaticism, or
corruption, or persecution. He will be free from the vices and
temptations of the old world, and will have a happier fate than that
of his unhappy father.

"EUGENE DE MONTRESOR."


Another paper was folded up with this. It was written in a different
hand, and was as follows:--


"BOSTON, June 20, 1740.

"Count Eugene de Montresor left on the 2d July, 1725, and has never
since been heard of. I have followed all his instructions, with one
exception. It was from the countess that I first heard the word of
life, and learned the truth. The priests at Quebec gave me no peace;
and so I had to leave and come here, among a people who are of
another nation, but own and hold my faith--the faith of the pure
worship of Christ. The count wished me to bring you up a Catholic;
but I had a higher duty than his will, and I have brought you up not
in your father's religion, but in your mother's faith. Your father
was a good man, though in error. He has, no doubt, long since
rejoined the saint who was his wife on earth; and I know that the
spirits of your father and mother smile approvingly on my acts.

"If I die before I tell you all, dear Claude, you will see this, and
will understand that I did my duty to your parents and to you--"

Here it ended abruptly. There was no name, and it was evidently
unfinished.




CHAPTER VI.

A FRENCH FRIGATE.


Mimi read both papers through rapidly and breathlessly, and having
finished them, she read them over once more. As she finished the
second reading, Claude presented to her in silence a small package.
She took it in the same silence. On opening it, she saw inside a
miniature portrait of a lady--the same one which Claude had
mentioned. She was young and exquisitely beautiful, with rich dark
hair, that flowed luxuriantly around her head; soft hazel eyes, that
rested with inexpressible sweetness upon the spectator; and a gentle,
winning smile. This face produced an unwonted impression upon Mimi.
Long and eagerly did she gaze upon it, and when, at length, she
handed it back to Claude, her eyes were moist with tears.

Claude replaced the portrait in its wrapper, and then restored it,
with the letters, to his pocket. For some time they sat in silence,
and then Claude said,--

"You see there is no great duty laid on me. Judging by the tone of
that letter, I should be doing my duty to my father if I did not go
to France--and if I did not seek after anything."

"Ah! but how could you possibly live, and leave all this
unexplained?"

"I could do it very easily," said Claude.

"You don't know yourself."

"O, yes, I could; I could live very easily and very happily--if I
only had your assistance."

At these words, which were spoken in a low, earnest voice, full of
hidden meaning, Mimi darted a rapid glance at Claude, and caught his
eyes fixed on her. Her own eyes fell before the fervid eagerness of
the young man's gaze, a flush overspread her face, and she said not a
word. Nor did Claude say anything more just then; but it was rather
as though he felt afraid of having gone too far, for he instantly
changed the subject.

"I'm afraid," said he, "that I shall not be able to find out very
much. You cannot give me any enlightenment, and there is nothing very
precise in these papers. The chief thing that I learned from them was
the fact that Jean Motier was not my father, but my guardian. Then a
few other things are stated which can easily be mentioned. First,
that my father was the Count Eugene de Montresor; then that he was
driven to exile by some false charge which he did not seem able to
meet; then, that his estates were confiscated; then, that his wife,
my mother, was a Huguenot, and also in danger. I see, also, that my
father considered his enemies altogether too powerful for any hope to
remain that he could resist them, and that finally, after my mother's
death, he grew weary of the world, and went away somewhere to die.

"Now, the fact that he lived two years in Quebec made me have some
thoughts at first of going there; but afterwards I recollected how
long it had been since he was there, and it seemed quite improbable
that I should find any one now who could tell me anything about him;
while, if I went to France, I thought it might be comparatively easy
to learn the cause of his exile and punishment. And so, as I couldn't
find any vessels going direct from Boston, I concluded to go to
Louisbourg and take ship there. I thought also that I might find out
something at Louisbourg; though what I expected I can hardly say.

"You spoke as though you supposed that this Cazeneau had something to
do with my father's trouble. Do you think that his present journey
has anything to do with it? That is, do you think he is coming out on
the same errand as your father?"

"I really do not know what to say about that. I should think not. I
know that he has some office in Louisbourg, and I do not see what
motive he can have to search after the Montresors. I believe that
papa hopes to find your papa, so as to make some atonement, or
something of that sort; but I do not believe that Cazeneau is capable
of making atonement for anything. I do not believe that Cazeneau has
a single good quality. Cazeneau is my father's evil genius."

Mimi spoke these words with much vehemence, not caring, in her
excitement, whether she was overheard or not; but scarce had she
uttered them than she saw emerging from the forecastle the head of
Cazeneau himself. She stopped short, and looked at him in amazement
and consternation. He bowed blandly, and coming upon deck, walked
past her to the stern. After he had passed, Mimi looked at Claude
with a face full of vexation.

"Who could have supposed," said she, "that he was so near? He must
have heard every word!"

"Undoubtedly he did," said Claude, "and he had a chance of verifying
the old adage that 'listeners never hear good of themselves.'"

"O, I wish you would be on your guard!" said Mimi, in real distress.
"It makes me feel very anxious."

She threw at Claude a glance so full of tender interest and pathetic
appeal, that Claude's playful mood gave way to one of a more
sentimental character; and it is quite impossible to tell what he
would have done or said had not Cazeneau again made his appearance,
on his way back to the forecastle.

He smiled a cold smile as he passed them.

"Charming weather for a _tête-à-tête_, mademoiselle," said he.
"_Parbleu_! Monsieur Motier, I don't wonder you don't make your
vessel go faster. I quite envy you; but at present I must see about
my fellows below here."

With these words he turned away, and descended into the forecastle.
Mimi also turned away, and Claude accompanied her to the stern.

"How old do you suppose he is?" asked Claude, very gravely.

"How old? What a funny question! Why, he must be nearly fifty by this
time."

"Fifty!" exclaimed Claude, in surprise.

"Yes."

"Why, I thought he was about thirty, or thirty-five."

"Well, he certainly doesn't look over forty; but he is a wonderfully
well-kept man. Even on the raft, the ruling passion remained strong
in the very presence of death, and he managed to keep up his youthful
appearance; but I know that he is almost, if not quite, as old as
papa."

"Is it possible?" cried Claude, in amazement.

Mimi turned, and with her face close to Claude's, regarded him with
an anxious look, and spoke in a low, hurried voice:--

"O, be on your guard--beware of him. Even now he is engaged in some
plot against you. I know it by his face. That's what takes him down
there to confer with the seamen. He is not to be trusted. He is all
false--in face, in figure, in mind, and in heart. He knows nothing
about honor, or justice, or mercy. He has been the deadly enemy of
the Montresors, and if he finds out who you are, he will be your
deadly enemy. O, don't smile that way! Don't despise this enemy! Be
careful--be on your guard, I entreat you--_for my sake_!"

These last words were spoken in a hurried whisper, and the next
moment Mimi turned and hastened down into the cabin to her father,
while Claude remained there, thinking over these words. Yet of them
all it was not the warning contained in them that was present in his
memory, but rather the sweet meaning convoyed in those last three
words, and in the tone in which they were uttered--the words _for my
sake_!

Out of his meditations on this theme he was at length aroused by an
exclamation from Zac. Looking up, he saw that worthy close beside
him, intently watching something far away on the horizon, through a
glass.

"I'll be darned if it ain't a French frigate!"

This was the exclamation that roused Claude. He at once returned to
himself, and turning to Zac, he asked him what he meant. Zac said
nothing, but, handing him the spy-glass, pointed away to the west,
where a sail was visible on the horizon. That sail was an object of
curious interest to others on board; to the lieutenant and seamen of
the wrecked vessel, who were staring at her from the bows; and to
Cazeneau, who was with them, staring with equal interest. Claude took
the glass, and raising it to his eye, examined the strange sail long
and carefully, but without being able to distinguish anything in
particular about her.

"What makes you think that she is a French frigate?" he asked, as he
handed the glass back to Zac. "I cannot make out that she is French
any more than English."

"O, I can tell easy enough," said Zac, "by the cut of her jib. Then,
too, I judge by her course. That there craft is comin' down out of
the Bay of Fundy, which the Moosoos in their lingo call Fonde de la
Baie. She's been up at some of the French settlements. Now, she may
be goin' to France--or mayhap she's goin' to Louisbourg--an' if so be
as she's goin' to Louisbourg, why, I shouldn't wonder if it mightn't
be a good idee for our French friends here to go aboard of her and
finish their voyage in a vessel of their own. One reason why I'd
rather have it so is, that I don't altogether like the manoeuvrin's
of that French count over thar. He's too sly; an' he's up to
somethin', an' I don't fancy havin' to keep up a eternal watch agin
him. If I was well red of him I could breathe freer; but at the same
time I don't altogether relish the idee of puttin' myself into the
clutches of that thar frigate. It's easy enough for me to keep out of
her way; but if I was once to get under her guns, thar'd be an end of
the Parson. This here count ain't to be trusted, no how; an' if he
once got into communication with that there frigate, he'd be my
master. An' so I'm in a reg'lar quan-dary, an' no mistake. Darned if
I know what in the blamenation to do about it."

Zac stopped short, and looked with an air of mild inquiry at Claude.
Claude, on his part, was rather startled by Zac's estimate of the
character of Cazeneau, for it chimed in so perfectly with Mimi's
opinion that it affected him in spite of himself. But it was only for
a moment, and then his own self-confidence gained the mastery.




CHAPTER VII.

CAUGHT IN A TRAP.


The schooner was now directed towards the stranger, and before very
long they saw that her course had been changed, and that she was now
bearing down upon them. Zac stood at the helm saying nothing, but
keeping his eyes fixed upon the frigate, which drew nearer and
nearer, till finally she came near enough for her flag to be plainly
seen. They had been right in their conjectures, and the new comer was
a French frigate. This assurance seemed to open the mouth of Zac.

"I must say," he remarked to Claude, "the nearer I get to her, the
less I like it. I've met Moosoo before this on the high seas, but I
allus went on the plan of keepin' out of his way. This here system of
goin' right into his jaws don't suit me at all."

"O, come now," said Claude, "don't begin again. I thought you'd given
up all anxiety. There's not the slightest occasion for being worried
about it. I'll find out whether they can take me to Louisbourg, and
so I'll leave you, and you'll get back to Boston quicker than if you
took me where you first proposed."

"Yes; but suppose she's goin' to France, and chooses to take me
prisoner?" said Zac.

"O, nonsense!" said Claude. "They couldn't. What, after saving so
many lives, and conveying these rescued fellow-countrymen to their
own flag, do you suppose they could think of arresting you? Nonsense!
The thing's impossible."

Zac said no more, but was evidently ill at ease, and in his own mind
there was no end of dark forebodings as to the event of this meeting.
These forebodings were in no way lessened as the schooner rounded to
under the lee of the frigate, and Zac saw a row of guns heavy enough
to blow him and his "Parson" to atoms. The frigate did not wait for
the schooner to send a boat aboard, for her own boat was all ready,
and soon appeared, well manned, rowing towards the schooner. On
coming alongside, the officer in command stepped on board, and Claude
at once went forward to meet him. Cazeneau also walked forward with
the same purpose.

Claude politely raised his hat, and the officer civilly returned his
greeting.

"This, monsieur, is the schooner Amos Adams, of Boston. We have
recently picked up the survivors of His Royal French Majesty's
frigate 'Arethuse,' which has been lost at sea, and we have come to
see whether you could take them. Will you have the goodness to tell
me where you are going?"

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the officer, "the Arethuse lost! Is it
possible? What a terrible misfortune! And she had on board the new
commandant for Louisbourg."

At this Cazeneau came forward.

"He is safe, monsieur, for I am he."

The officer respectfully removed his hat, and bowed very low.

"What ship is this?" asked Cazeneau, in the tone of a superior.

"L'Aigle," replied the officer.

"Where are you bound?"

"To Brest. We have just been cruising to the different settlements
and forts on the Bay of Fundy, with some supplies which were sent
from Louisbourg."

"Ah! And you are now on your return to France?"

"Yes."

"Who commands your ship?"

"Captain Ducrot."

"Ah! Very good. You see, monsieur," said Cazeneau to Claude, "this
ship is bound to France; and that destination will not suit any of
us. I think I had better go aboard and see the captain, with whom I
may have some little influence. Perhaps, as my command is an
important one, he may be persuaded to alter his course, and land us
at Louisbourg, or some other place.--And so, monsieur," he continued,
turning to the officer, "I shall be obliged to you if you will put me
aboard the Aigle."

The officer assured him that the boat was altogether at his service;
whereupon Cazeneau stepped aboard, followed by the officer, and in a
short time the boat was on its way back to the frigate. Claude
watched this in silence, and without any misgivings. It seemed to him
quite natural, and, indeed, the best thing that could be done, under
the circumstances. If the ship was going to France, she could not be
of service to them; but if her captain could be induced to change his
course and land them at Louisbourg, this would be exactly what they
wanted; and Cazeneau seemed to be the only one on board who was at
all likely to persuade the captain of the Aigle to do such a thing as
this.

It seemed a long time before any further notice was taken of the
schooner. Meanwhile, all on board were watching the frigate with much
anxiety, and wondering what the result would be. In any case it did
not seem a matter of very great importance to any one; for the
lieutenant and the two sailors, who might have been most concerned,
were very well treated on board the schooner,--better, perhaps, than
they would be on board a frigate,--and evinced no particular desire
to leave. The priest said nothing; and to him, as well as to Claude,
there was nothing to be gained by taking to the ship. As for the aged
Laborde, he was still too weak to take any notice of events going on
around him; while Mimi, perhaps, found herself as well situated here,
under the care of Claude, as she could possibly be on the larger
ship, under the care of one who might be less agreeable. Claude
himself would certainly have preferred letting things remain as they
were. The situation was very pleasant. Mimi's occasional
companionship seemed sweeter than anything he had ever known; and, as
he was master on board, he naturally had a certain right to show her
attentions; which right he could not have under other circumstances.
He would have liked to see Cazeneau take his departure for good,
together with the French sailors, leaving Laborde and Mimi on board
the schooner. Finally, Zac was not at all pleased with anything in
his present situation. The thought of possible foul play never left
his mind for an instant; and though the blow was delayed for a
considerable time, he could not help feeling sure that it would fall.

During this period of waiting, the aged Laborde had been brought up
on deck, and placed there on a seat. This was done from a hope which
Mimi had that he would be benefited by the excitement of the change.
The sight of the ship, however, produced but little effect of any
kind upon the languid and worn-out old man. He gave an indifferent
glance at the frigate and the surrounding scene, and then subsided
into himself, while Mimi in vain strove to rouse him from his
indifference.

At last their suspense came to an end, and they saw preparations
making for another visit to the schooner. This time a second boat was
lowered, which was filled with marines. The sight of this formidable
boat's crew produced on Claude an impression of surprise; while in
Zac it enforced a conviction that his worst fears were now to be
realized.

"Look thar!" said he in a hoarse whisper. "Now you see what's a
comin'! Good by, poor old Parson! Yer in the claws of the Philistines
now, an' no mistake."

To this Claude made no reply, for he began to feel rather perplexed
himself, and to imagine that Cazeneau might have been playing him
false. All that Mimi had said about him now came to his mind, and the
armed boat's crew seemed like the first act of a traitor. He tried to
account for this in some other way, but was not able. He could no
longer laugh away Zac's fears. He could only be still and wait.

The two boats rowed towards the schooner. Cazeneau was not in either
of them. He had remained on board. At length one of the boats touched
the schooner, and the same officer who had visited her before again
stepped on board.

"Is the Count de Laborde here?" he asked.

Claude pointed to where the old man was seated. The officer advanced,
and removed his hat with a bow to the old count, and another to the
beautiful Mimi.

"Monsieur le Comte," said he, "I have the honor to convoy to you the
compliments of Captain Ducrot, with the request that you would honor
him with your company on board the Aigle. His excellency the Comte de
Cazeneau, commandant of Louisbourg, has persuaded him to convey
himself, and you, and some others, to the nearest French fort. It is
the intention of Captain Ducrot to sail back up the Bay of Fundy, and
land you at Grand Pré, from which place you can reach Louisbourg by
land."

To this Laborde murmured a few indistinct words in reply, while Mimi
made no remark whatever. She was anxious to know what Claude was
intending to do. The officer now turned away to the others.

"My instructions," said he, "are, to convey the invitation of Captain
 Ducrot to Monsieur l'Abbé Michel and Lieutenant d'Angers, whom he
will be happy to receive on board the Aigle, and convey them to Grand
Pré, or France. The two seamen of the Arethuse will also go on board
and report themselves."

The officer now went back to Laborde, and offered, to assist him. The
old man rose, and taking his arm, walked feebly towards the vessel's
side, whence he descended into the boat, and was assisted to the
stern by the seamen. The officer then assisted Mimi to a place by her
father's side, anticipating Claude, who stepped forward with the
offer of his assistance. Then followed Père Michel, and Lieutenant
d'Angers, of the Arethuse; then Margot; and, finally, the two seamen.

Meanwhile nothing was said to Claude. He was not included in the
compliments of Captain Ducrot, nor was any notice taken of him in any
way. He could not help feeling slighted and irritated at the whole
proceeding. To himself and to Zac this whole party owed their lives,
and they were all leaving him now with no more regard for him than if
he were, a perfect stranger. But the fact was, the whole party took
it for granted that he and Zac would be invited on board, and that
they would see them both again, and supposed that they were coming in
the same boat. Mimi and Père Michel both thought that Claude, at
least, was going with them; for he had told them both that he was
going to leave the schooner and send Zac home.

But Claude's feelings were somewhat embittered by this whole
incident, and were destined to be still more so before it was all
over.

The lieutenant remained on board. The boat rowed back to the Aigle,
carrying the passengers above named, after which the lieutenant
motioned to the other boat. This one moved alongside, and a
half-dozen armed seamen stepped on board.

"Monsieur," said the lieutenant, advancing to Claude, "I hope you
will pardon me for being the instrument in a very unpleasant duty. I
am pained to inform you that you are my prisoner, on the command of
his excellency the commandant of Louisbourg, whose instructions I am
ordered to fulfil. I deeply regret this painful necessity, and most
sincerely hope that it may prove only a temporary inconvenience."

At this Claude was so astounded that for some time he could only
stare at the officer, without being able to utter a syllable. At
length he said,--

"What, monsieur! A prisoner? You must be mistaken! And who--The
commandant of Louisbourg--is not that the Count de Cazeneau?"

"It is."

"But, monsieur, it must be a mistake. I have never injured him or any
one. I have done nothing but good to him. My friend here, the captain
of this schooner, and I, saved his life; and we have treated him with
the utmost kindness since he was on board here. Finally, we sailed
towards you, and put ourselves in your power, solely that these
shipwrecked passengers, of whom the Count de Cazeneau was one, might
reach their friends sooner. How, then, can he possibly mean to arrest
me?"

"Monsieur, I assure you that it grieves mo most deeply," said the
officer--"most exquisitely. I know all this--all, and so does Captain
Ducrot; but there is no mistake, and it must be."

"But what authority has he here, and why should your captain do his
orders?"

"Monsieur, I am only a subordinate, and I know nothing but my orders.
At the same time, you must know that the commandant of Louisbourg has
general control, by land and sea, and is my captain's superior."

Claude made no reply. He saw that this man was but, as he said, a
subordinate, and was only obeying his orders. But the officer had
something still on his mind. His words and his looks all showed that
the present business was exceedingly distasteful to him, and that he
was only doing it under pressure.

"Monsieur," said he, after a pause, "I have another painful duty to
perform. I am ordered to take possession of this schooner, as a prize
of war, and take the captain and crew as prisoners of war."

At this Claude stared at the officer once more, utterly stupefied.

"Mon Dieu!" he cried, at length. "Are you a Frenchman? Is your
captain a French gentleman? Do you know, monsieur, what you are
doing? We have saved some shipwrecked Frenchmen; we have carried them
to a place of safety; and for this we are arrested! This honest man,
the captain, might expect a reward for his generosity; and what does
he get? Why, he is seized as a prisoner of war, and his schooner is
made a prize! Is there any chivalry left in France? Are these the
acts of Frenchmen? Great Heavens! Has it come to this?"

"Monsieur," said the officer, "be calm, I implore you. All this gives
me the most exquisite distress. But I must obey orders."

"You are right," said Claude. "You are a subordinate. I am wasting
words to talk with you. Take me to your captain, or to the Count de
Cazeneau. Let me learn what it is that induces him to act towards us
with such unparalleled baseness."

"Monsieur, I shall be happy to do all that I can. I will take you to
the Aigle,--under guard,--and you will be a prisoner there. I hope
that his excellency will accord you the favor of an interview."

All this time Zac had been a silent spectator of the scene. He had
not understood the words that were spoken, but he had gathered the
general meaning of this scene from the gestures and expression of the
two speakers. The presence, also, of the armed guard was enough to
show him that the blow which he dreaded had fallen. And now, since
the worst had happened, all his uneasiness departed, and he resumed
all the vigor of his mind. He at once decided upon the best course to
follow, and that course was to be emphatically one of quiet, and
calmness, and cool watchfulness. Claude had become excited at this
event; Zac had become cool.

"Wal," said he, advancing towards Claude, "it's just as I said. I
allus said that these here frog-eatin' Frenchmen wan't to be trusted;
and here, you see, I was right. I see about how it is. The poor,
unfort'nate Parson's done for, an' I'm in for it, too, I s'pose."

Claude turned, and gave Zac a look of indescribable distress.

"There's some infernal villain at work, Zac," said he, "out of the
common course, altogether. I'm arrested myself."

"You? Ah!" said Zac, who did not appear to be at all surprised. "You
don't say so! Wal, you've got the advantage of me, since you can
speak their darned lingo. So they've gone an' 'rested you, too--have
they?"

"It's that infernal Cazeneau," said Claude; "and I haven't got the
faintest idea why."

"Cazeneau, is it? O, well," said Zac, "they're all alike. It's my
opinion that it's the captain of the frigate, an' he's doin' it in
Cazeneau's name. Ye see he's ben a cruisin' about, an' hankers after
a prize; an' I'm the only one he's picked up. You're
'rested--course--as one of the belongin's of the Parson. You an' I
an' the hull crew: that's it! We're all prisoners of war!"

"O, no," said Claude. "It isn't that, altogether; there's some deeper
game."

"Pooh!" said Zac; "the game ain't a deep one, at all; it's an
every-day game. But I must say it is hard to be done for jest because
we had a leetle too much hooman feelin'. Now, ef we'd only let them
Frenchies rot and drown on their raft,--or ef we'd a' taken them as
prisoners to Boston,--we'd ben spared this present tribulation."

Zac heaved a sigh as he said this, and turned away. Then a sudden
thought struck him.

"O, look here," said he; "jest ask 'em one thing, as a partiklar
favor. You needn't mention me, though. It's this. Ask 'em if they
won't leave me free--that is, I don't want to be handcuffed."

"Handcuffed!" exclaimed Claude, grinding his teeth in futile rage.
"They won't dare to do that!"

"O, you jest ask this Moosoo, as a favor. They needn't object."

Upon this Claude turned to the officer.

"Monsieur," said he, "I have a favor to ask. I and my friend here are
your prisoners, but we do not wish to be treated with unnecessary
indignity or insult. I ask, then, that we may be spared the insult of
being bound. Our offence has not been great. Wo have only saved the
lives of six of your fellow-countrymen. Is it presumption to expect
this favor?"

"Monsieur," said the officer, "I assure you that, as far as I have
anything to say, you shall not be bound. And as to this brave fellow,
he may be at liberty to move about in this schooner as long as he is
quiet and gives no offence--that is, for the present. And now,
monsieur, I will ask you to accompany me on board the Aigle."

With these words the officer prepared to quit the schooner. Before
doing so he addressed some words to the six seamen, who were to be
left in charge as a prize crew, with one midshipman at their head. He
directed them to follow the frigate until further orders, and also,
until further orders, to leave the captain of the schooner unbound,
and let him have the run of the vessel.

After this the officer returned to the Aigle, taking Claude with him.




CHAPTER VIII.

UNDER ARREST.


By the time that Claude reached the Aigle, the evening of this
eventful day was at hand. He was taken to a room on the gun-deck,
which seemed as though used for a prison, from the general character
of the bolts and bars, and other fixtures. Claude asked to see the
captain, and the lieutenant promised to carry the message to him.
After about an hour he came back with the message that the captain
could not see him that evening. Upon this Claude begged him to ask
Count de Cazeneau for an interview. The officer went off once more,
and returned with the same answer. Upon this Claude was compelled to
submit to his fate as best he might. It was a hard thing for him, in
the midst of health, and strength, and joy, with all the bounding
activity and eager energy of youth, to be cast down into a prison;
but to be arrested and imprisoned under such circumstances; to be so
foully wronged by the very man whose life he had saved; to have his
own kindness and hospitality repaid by treachery, and bonds, and
insult,--all this was galling in the highest degree, and well nigh
intolerable.

That night Claude did not sleep. He lay awake wondering what could be
the cause of Cazeneau's enmity, and trying in vain to conjecture.

All the next morning Claude waited for some message from Captain
Ducrot; but none came. His breakfast was brought to him, consisting
of the coarse fare of common seamen, and then his dinner; but the
captain did not make his appearance. Even the officer who had
arrested him, and who had hitherto shown himself sufficiently
sympathetic, did not appear. The sailor who brought his meals gave no
answer to his questions. It seemed to Claude as though his captors
were unwilling to give him a hearing.

At length, in about the middle of the afternoon, Claude heard the
tramp of men approaching his prison; the door was opened, and he saw
an officer enter, while three marines, with fixed bayonets, stood
outside.

"Have I the honor of speaking to Captain Ducrot?" asked Claude.

"I am Captain Ducrot," said the other.

He was a small, wiry man, dressed with extreme neatness, who looked
rather like an attorney than a seaman. His voice was thin and
harsh,--his manner cold and repulsive, with an air of primness and
formality that made him seem more like a machine than a man. The
first sight of him made Claude feel as though any appeal to his
humanity or generosity, or even justice, would be useless. He looked
like an automaton, fit to obey the will of another, but without any
independent will of his own. Nevertheless, Claude had no other
resource; so he began:--

"I have asked for this interview, monsieur," said he, "from a
conviction that there must be some mistake. Listen to me for a
moment. I have lived in Boston all my life. I was on my way to
Louisbourg, intending to go to France from there, on business. I had
engaged a schooner to take me to Louisbourg; and at sea I came across
a portion of the wreck of the Arethuse, with six people on board, one
of whom was the Count de Cazeneau. I saved them all--that is, with
the assistance of the captain of the schooner. After I brought them
on board the schooner, I treated them all with the utmost kindness;
and finally, when I saw your ship in the distance, I voluntarily
sailed towards you, for the purpose of allowing my passengers to go
on board. I had designed coming on board myself also, if your
destination suited my views. And now, monsieur, for all this I find
myself arrested, held here in prison, treated as a common felon, and
all because I have saved the lives of some shipwrecked fellow-beings.
Monsieur, it is not possible that this can be done with your
knowledge. If you want confirmation of my words, ask the good priest
Père Michel, and he will confirm all that I have said."

The captain listened to all this very patiently, and without any
interruption. At length, as Claude ended, he replied,--

"But you yourself cannot suppose that you, as you say, are imprisoned
merely for this. People do not arrest their benefactors merely
because they are their benefactors; and if you have saved the life of
his excellency, you cannot suppose that he has ordered your arrest
for that sole reason. Monsieur has more good sense, and must
understand well that there is some sort of charge against him."

"Monsieur," said Claude, "I swear to you I not only know no reason
for my arrest, but I cannot even imagine one; and I entreat you, as a
man of honor, to tell me what the charge against me is."

"Monsieur," said the captain, blandly, "we are both men of honor, of
course. Of your honor I have no doubt. It is untouched. Every day men
of honor, and of rank, too, are getting into difficulties; and
whenever one meddles with political affairs it must be so."

"Political affairs!" cried Claude. "What have I to do with political
affairs?"

The captain again smiled blandly.

"_Parbleu_, monsieur, but that is not for me to say."

"But is that the charge against me?"

"Most certainly. How could it be otherwise?"

"Politics, politics!" cried Claude. "I don't understand you! I must
be taken for some other person."

"O, no," said the captain; "there's no mistake."

"Pardon me, monsieur, there must be."

"Then, monsieur, allow me to indulge the hope that you may be able to
show where the mistake is, at your trial."

The captain made a movement now as though he was about to leave; but
Claude detained him.

"One moment, monsieur," said he. "Will you not tell me something
more? Will you not tell me what these political charges are? For, I
swear to you, I cannot imagine. How can I, who have lived all my life
in Boston, be connected with politics in any way? Let me know, then,
something about these charges; for nothing is more distressing than
to be in a situation like this, and have no idea whatever of the
cause of it."


[Illustration: "Of Your Honor I Have No Doubt."]


"_Eh bien_, monsieur," said the captain, "since you wish it, I have
no objection whatever to state what they are; and if you can clear
yourself and show your innocence, I shall be the first to
congratulate you. His excellency will not object to my telling you, I
am sure, for he is the soul of goodness, and is full of generous
impulses. Very well, then. In the first place you call yourself
Claude Motier. Now, this is said to be an assumed name. Your real
name is said to be Claude de Montresor; and it is said that you are
the son of a certain Eugene de Moutresor, who committed grave
offences about twenty years ago, for which he would have been
severely punished had he not fled from the country. His wife,
also,--your mother, perhaps,--was proscribed, and would have been
arrested and punished had she not escaped with her husband. They were
then outlawed, and their estates were confiscated. The wife died, the
husband disappeared. This is what happened to them."

"That is all true," said Claude. "But my father and mother were both
most foully wronged--"

"Pardon, monsieur," said the captain. "That is very probable; but I
am not here as judge; I am only giving you information about the
charge against you. I have not time to listen to your answer; and I
would advise you not to speak too hastily. You have already confessed
to the assumed name. I would advise you to be careful in your
statements. And now, monsieur, should you like to hear any more?"

"Yes, yes!" cried Claude, eagerly; "tell me all that there is to
know."

"Very well," said the captain. "Now you, under an assumed name,
engage a schooner to take you, not to Louisbourg, but to some place
in the vicinity of Louisbourg. Being the son of two dangerous
political offenders, who were both outlawed for grave crimes, you are
found coming from Boston to Louisbourg under an assumed name, and
upon a secret errand, which you keep to yourself. Under these
circumstances the commandant could not overlook your case. It seemed
to him one which was full of suspicion, and, in spite of the
gratitude which he felt for your kind offices, he nevertheless was
compelled, by a strong sense of public duty, to order your arrest.
You will be accorded a fair trial; and, though appearances are
against you, you may succeed in proving your innocence; in which
case, monsieur, I am sure that no one will be more rejoiced than
myself and his excellency.

"You have also complained, monsieur, of the arrest of your captain.
That was done on account of his unfortunate connection with you. He
may be innocent, but that remains to be seen. At present appearances
are against him, and he must take his share of the guilt which
attaches to you. His arrest was a political necessity."

After this the captain left; and, as Claude saw how useless it was to
attempt to plead his cause to this man, he made no further attempt to
detain him.

Left once more to his own reflections, Claude recalled all that the
captain had said, and at first was lost in wonder at the gravity of
the charges that had been raised up against him. Nor could he conceal
from himself that, though they were based on nothing, they still were
serious and formidable. Even in France charges of a political kind
would lead to serious consequences; and here in the colonies he felt
less sure of justice. Indeed, as far as justice was concerned, he
hardly hoped to experience anything of the kind, for his judge would
be the very man who had got up these charges, and had treated him
with such baseness and treachery. The fact was, that he would be
called before a court where accuser, witness, and judge would all be
one and the same person, and, what was more, the person who for some
reason had chosen to become his bitterest enemy. Dark indeed and
gloomy was the prospect that now lowered before him.

Before an impartial court the charges against him might be answered
or refuted; but where could he find such a court? Cazeneau had
created the charges, and would know how to make them still more
formidable. And now he felt that behind these charges there must lurk
something more dangerous still.

Already there had arisen in his mind certain suspicions as to
Cazeneau's designs upon Mimi. These suspicions he had hinted at in
conversation with her, and his present circumstances deepened them
into convictions. It began now to seem to him that Cazeneau had
designs to make the beautiful, high-born girl his wife. Everything
favored him. He was supreme in authority out here; the old Laborde
was under his influence; the daughter's consent alone was wanting. Of
that consent, under ordinary circumstances, he could make sure. But
he had seen a close and strong friendship arising between Mimi and
her preserver. This Claude considered as a better and more probable
cause for his hate. If this were indeed so, and if this hate grew up
out of jealousy, then his prospects were indeed dark, for jealousy is
as cruel as the grave.

The more Claude thought of this, the greater was the importance which
he attached to it. It seemed to be this which had made Cazeneau
transform himself into an eavesdropper; this which had occasioned his
dark looks, his morose words, and haughty reticence. In his
eavesdropping he must have heard enough to excite his utmost
jealousy; and Claude, in recalling his conversations with Mimi, could
remember words which must have been gall and bitterness to such a
jealous listener.




CHAPTER IX.

GRAND PRE.


Nearly thirty years before this, the French government had been
compelled to give up the possession of Acadie to the English, and to
retire to the Island of Cape Breton. Here they had built a stronghold
at Louisbourg, which they were enlarging and strengthening every
year, to the great disgust and alarm of the New England colonies. But
though Acadie had been given up to the English, it could hardly be
said to be held by them. Only two posts were occupied, the one at
Canso, in the strait that separated Cape Breton from Acadie, and the
other at Annapolis Royal. At Canso there was a wooden block-house,
with a handful of soldiers: while at Annapolis Royal, where the
English governor resided, the fortifications were more extensive, yet
in a miserable condition. At this last place there were a few
companies of soldiers, and here the governor tried to perform the
difficult task of transforming the French Acadians to loyal British
subjects.

But the French at Louisbourg never forgot their fellow-countrymen,
and never relinquished their designs on Acadie. The French
inhabitants of that province amounted to several thousands, who
occupied the best portions of the country, while the English
consisted of only a few individuals in one or two posts. Among the
French Acadians emissaries were constantly moving about, who sought
to keep up among them their old loyalty to the French crown, and by
their pertinacity sorely disturbed the peace of the English governor
at Annapolis Royal. The French governor at Louisbourg was not slow to
second these efforts by keeping the Acadians supplied with arms and
ammunition; and it was for this purpose that the Aigle had been sent
to the settlements up the Bay of Fundy.

Up the bays he now sailed, in accordance with the wish of Cazeneau.
His reason for this course was, that he might see the people for
himself, and judge how far they might be relied on in the event of
war, which he knew must soon be declared. It was his intention to
land at Grand Pré, the chief Acadian settlement, and thence proceed
by land to Louisbourg. He had understood from Captain Ducrot that an
Indian trail went all the way through the woods, which could be
traversed on horseback. Such a course would impose more hardship upon
the aged Laborde and Mimi than would be encountered on shipboard; but
Cazeneau had his own purposes, which were favored, to a great extent,
by the land route. Besides, he had the schooner with him, so that if,
after all, it should be advisable to go by water, they could make the
journey in her.

The Aigle sailed, and the schooner followed. The wind had changed,
and now blew more steadily, and from a favorable quarter. The
currents delayed them somewhat; but on the third morning after the
two vessels had met, they reached the entrance of the Basin of Minas.

The scenery here was wild and grand. A few miles from the shore there
rose a lofty rocky island, precipitous on all sides save one, its
summit crested with trees, its base worn by the restless waves.
Opposite this was a rocky shore, with cliffs crowned with the
primeval forest. From this pond the strait began, and went on for
miles, till it reached the Basin, forming a majestic avenue, with a
sublime gateway. On one side of this gateway were rocky shores
receding into wooded hills, while on the other was a towering cliff
standing apart from the shore, rising abruptly from the water, torn
by the tempest and worn by the tide. From this the precipitous cliff
ran on for miles, forming one side of the strait, till it terminated
in a majestic promontory.

This promontory rose on one side, and on the other a lofty, wooded
island, inside of which was a winding shore, curving into a harbor.
Here the strait terminated, and beyond this the waters of the Basin
of Minas spread away for many a mile, surrounded on every side by
green, wooded shores. In one place was a cluster of small islands; in
another, rivers rolled their turbid floods, bearing with them the
sediment of long and fertile valleys. The blue waters sparkled in the
sun under the blue sky; the sea-gulls whirled and screamed through
the air; nowhere could the eye discern any of the works of man. It
seemed like some secluded corner of the universe, and as if those on
board the ship


    "were the first that ever burst
  Into that silent sea."


But, though not visible from this point, the settlements of man were
here, and the works of human industry lying far away on the slopes of
distant hills and the edges of low, marshy shores.

It was not without much caution that they had passed through the
strait. They had waited for the tide to come in, and then, with a
favorable wind, they had made the venture. Borne onward by wind and
tide together, they sailed on far into the bay, and then, directing
their course to the southward, they sailed onward for a few miles
farther. The captain had been here before, and was anxious to find
his former anchorage. On the former occasion he had waited outside
and sent in for a pilot, but now he had ventured inside without one,
trusting to his memory. He knew well the perils that attend upon
navigation in this place, and was not inclined to risk too much. For
here were the highest tides in the world to be encountered, and swift
currents, and sudden gusts of wind, and far-spreading shoals and
treacherous quicksands, among which the unwary navigator could come
to destruction only too easily.

But no accident happened on this occasion; the navigation was made
with the utmost circumspection, the schooner being sent ahead to
sound all the way, and the ship following. At length both came to
anchor at a distance from the shore of about five miles. Nearer than
that the captain did not dare to go, for fear of the sand-banks and
shoals.

Here a boat was lowered, and Cazeneau prepared to land, together with
the aged Laborde and Mimi. The Abbé Michel also prepared to accompany
them.

Ever since Laborde had been saved from the wreck, he had been weak
and listless. It seemed as though the exhaustion, and exposure, and
privation of that event had utterly broken down his constitution.
Since he had been taken to the ship, however, he had grown much
worse, and was no longer able to walk. He had not risen from his
berth since he had come on board the Aigle. Mimi's anxiety about him
had been excessive, and she had no thought for anything else. The
situation of Claude was unknown to her, and her distress about her
father's increasing weakness prevented her from thinking much about
him. Her only hope now was, that on reaching the shore her father
would experience a change for the better, and be benefited by the
land air.

On removing Laborde from his berth, it was found that he not only had
not strength to stand, but that he was even so weak that this motion
served of itself to exhaust him fearfully. He had to be placed on a
mattress, and carried in that way by four sailors to the ship's side,
where he was carefully let clown into the boat. There the mattress
was placed in the boat's stern, and Laborde lay upon this, with his
head supported against Mimi, who held him encircled in her arms. In
this way he was taken ashore.

It was a long row, but the water was comparatively smooth, and the
landing had been postponed until the flood tide, which made the
boat's progress easier and swifter.

The nearest shore was very low, and the landing-place was two or
three miles farther on. In the distance the land rose higher, and was
covered with trees, with here and there a clearing. The land which
they first approached was well wooded on the water side, but on
passing this the whole scene changed. This land was an island, about
two miles distant from the shore, with its inner side cleared, and
dotted with houses and barns. Between this and the shore there
extended a continuous tract of low land, which had evidently once
been a salt-water marsh, for along the water's edge the coarse grass
grew luxuriantly; but a little distance back there was a dike, about
six or eight feet high, which ran from the island to the shore, and
evidently protected the intervening level from the sea. The island
itself thus served as a dike, and the artificial works that had been
made ran where the sea had the least possible effect.

At length they approached the main land, and here they saw the low
marsh-land all around them. Here a turbid river ran into the Basin,
which came down a valley enclosed between wooded hills, and, with
voluminous windings, terminated its course.

At this place there was a convenient beach for landing, and here
Laborde was removed from the boat and carried up on the bank, where
he was laid on his mattress under a shadowy willow tree. This point,
though not very elevated, commanded a prospect which, to these new
comers who had suffered so much from the sea, might have afforded the
highest delight, had they been sufficiently free from care to take it
all in. All around them lay one of the most fertile countries in all
the world, and one of the most beautiful. The slopes of the hills
rose in gentle acclivities, cultivated, dotted with groves and
orchards, and lined with rows of tall poplars. The simple houses of
the Acadian farmers, with their out-buildings, gave animation to the
scene. At their feet lay a broad extent of dike-land, green and
glowing with the verdure of Juno, spreading away to that island,
which acted as a natural dike against the waters of the sea. Beyond
this lay the blue waters of Minas Basin, on whose bosom floated the
ship and the schooner, while in the distance rose the cliff which
marked the entrance into the Basin, and all the enclosing shores.

But none of the party noticed this. Cazeneau was absorbed with his
own plans; Laborde lay extended on the mattress, without any
appearance of life except a faint breathing and an occasional
movement; over him Mimi hung in intense anxiety, watching every
change in his face, and filled with the most dreadful apprehensions;
at a little distance stood Père Michel, watching them with sad and
respectful sympathy.

Captain Ducrot had come ashore in the boat, and, leaving Laborde, he
accompanied Cazeneau to a house which stood not far away. It was
rather larger than the average, with a row of tall poplars in front
and an orchard on one side. A road ran from the landing, past this
house, up the hill, to the rest of the settlement farther on.

An old man was seated on a bench in the doorway. He rose as he saw
the strangers, and respectfully removed his hat.

"How do you do, Robicheau?" said Ducrot. "You see I have come back
again sooner than I expected. I have brought with me his excellency
the governor of Louisbourg, who will be obliged if you can make him
comfortable for a few days. Also there are the Count de Laborde and
his daughter, whom I should like to bring here; but if you cannot
make them comfortable, I can take them to Comeau's."

Upon this, Robicheau, with a low bow to Cazeneau, informed him that
he thought there might be room for them all, if they would be willing
to accept his humble hospitality. The old man spoke with much
embarrassment, yet with sincere good will. He was evidently
overwhelmed by the grandeur of his visitors, yet anxious to do all in
his power to give them fitting entertainment. Ducrot now informed him
that the Count de Laborde needed immediate rest and attention;
whereupon Robicheau went in to summon his dame, who at once set to
work to prepare rooms for the guests.

Ducrot now returned to the landing, and ordered the sailors to carry
Laborde to Robicheau's house. They carried him on the mattress,
supporting it on two oars, which were fastened with ropes in such a
way as to form a very easy litter. Mimi walked by her father's side,
while Père Michel followed in the rear. In this way they reached
Robicheau's house. The room and the bed were already prepared, and
Laborde was carried there. As he was placed upon that bed, Mimi
looked at him with intense anxiety and alarm, for his pale, emaciated
face and weak, attenuated frame seemed to belong to one who was at
the last verge of life. An awful fear of the worst came over her--the
fear of bereavement in this distant land, the presentiment of an
appalling desolation, which crushed her young heart and reduced her
to despair. Her father, her only relative, her only protector, was
slipping away from her; and in the future there seemed nothing before
her but the very blackness of darkness.

The good dame Robicheau saw her bitter grief, and shed tears of
sympathy. She offered no word of consolation, for to her experienced
eyes this feeble old man seemed already beyond the reach of hope. She
could only show her compassion by her tears. Père Michel, also, had
nothing to say; and to all the distress of the despairing young girl
he could offer no word of comfort. It was a case where comfort could
not be administered, and where the stricken heart could only be left
to struggle with its own griefs--alone.

A few hours after the first boat went ashore, a second boat landed.
By this time, a large number of the inhabitants had assembled at the
landing-place, to see what was going on; for to these people the
sight of a ship was a rare occurrence, and they all recognized the
Aigle, and wondered why she had returned. This second boat carried
Claude, who had thus been removed from the ship to the shore for the
purpose of being conveyed to Louisbourg. Captain Ducrot and Cazeneau
had already succeeded in finding a place where he could be kept. It
was the house of one of the fanners of Grand Pré, named Comeau, one
of the largest in the whole settlement.

Claude landed, and was committed to the care of Comeau, who had come
down to receive his prisoner. It was not thought worth while to bind
him, since, in so remote a place as this, there would be scarcely any
inducement for him to try to escape. If he did so, he could only fly
to the woods, and, as he could not support his life there, he would
be compelled to return to the settlement, or else seek shelter and
food among the Indians. In either case he would be recaptured; for
the Acadians would all obey the order of the governor of Louisbourg,
and deliver up to him any one whom he might designate; while the
Indians would do the same with equal readiness, since they were all
his allies. Under these circumstances, Claude was allowed to go with
his hands free; and in this way he accompanied Comeau, to whose
charge he was committed. He walked through the crowd at the landing
without exciting any very particular attention, and in company with
Comeau he walked for about half a mile, when he arrived at the house.
Here he was taken to a room which opened into the general
sitting-room, and was lighted by a small window in the rear of the
house, and contained a bed and a chair. The door was locked, and
Claude was left to his own reflections.

Left thus to himself, Claude did not find his own thoughts very
agreeable. He could not help feeling that he was now, more than ever,
in the power of the man who had shown himself so relentless and
persevering in his enmity. He was far away from any one whom he could
claim as a friend. The people here were evidently all the creatures
of Ducrot and Cazeneau. He saw that escape was useless. To get away
from this particular place of imprisonment might be possible, for the
window could be opened, and escape thus effected; but, if he should
succeed in flying, where could he go? Annapolis Royal was many miles
away; He did not know the way there; he could not ask; and even if he
did know the way, he could only go there by running the gantlet of a
population who were in league with Cazeneau.

That evening, as old Comeau brought him some food, he tried to enter
into conversation with him. He began in a gradual way, and as his
host, or, rather, his jailer, listened, he went on to tell his whole
story, insisting particularly on the idea that Cazeneau must be
mistaken; for he thought it best not to charge him with deliberate
malice. He hinted, also, that if he could escape he might bestow a
handsome reward upon the man who might help him. To all this Comeau
listened, and even gave utterance to many expressions of sympathy;
but the end of it all was nothing. Either Comeau disbelieved him
utterly, but was too polite to say so, or else he was afraid to
permit the escape of the prisoner who had been intrusted to his care.
Claude then tried another means of influencing him. He reminded him
that the governor of Louisbourg had no jurisdiction here; that the
Acadians of Grand Pré were subject to the King of England, and that
all concerned in this business would be severely punished by the
English as soon as they heard of it. But here Claude utterly missed
his mark. No sooner had he said this, than old Comeau began to
denounce the English with the utmost scorn and contempt. He told
Claude that there were many thousands of French in Acadia, and only a
hundred English; that they were weak and powerless; that their fort
at Annapolis was in a ruinous state; and that, before another year,
they would be driven out forever. He asserted that the King of France
was the greatest of all kings; that France was the most powerful of
all countries; that Louisbourg was the strongest fortress in the
universe; and that the French would drive the English, not only out
of Acadia, but out of America. In fact, Claude's allusion to the
English proved to be a most unfortunate one; for, whereas at first
the old man seemed to feel some sort of sympathy with his
misfortunes, so, at the last, excited by this allusion, he seemed to
look upon him as a traitor to the cause of France, and as a criminal
who was guilty of all that Cazeneau had laid to his charge.




CHAPTER X.

ALONE IN THE WORLD.


The condition of the old Count de Laborde grew steadily worse. The
change to the land had done him no good, nor was all the loving care
of Mimi of any avail whatever. Every one felt that he was doomed: and
Mimi herself, though she struggled against that thought, still had in
her heart a dark terror of the truth. This truth could at last be
concealed no longer even from herself, for Père Michel came to
administer the holy eucharist to the dying man, and to receive his
last confession. Mimi could not be present while the dying man
unfolded to his priest the secrets of his heart, nor could she hope
to know what those secrets were. But dark indeed must they have been,
and far, very far, beyond the scope of ordinary confessions, for the
face of Père Michel, as he came forth from that room, was pale and
sombre; and so occupied was he with his own thoughts that he took no
notice of the weeping girl who stood there, longing to hear from him
some word of comfort. But Père Michel had none to give. He left the
house, and did not return till the next day.

By that time all was over. Laborde had passed away in the night. The
priest went in to look upon the form of the dead. Mimi was there,
bowed down in the deepest grief, for she felt herself all alone in
the world. The priest stood looking at the face of the dead for some
time with that same gloom upon his face which had been there on the
preceding day, when he left that bedside. At length he turned to
Mimi.

"Child," said he, in a voice full of pity, "I will not attempt to
utter any words of condolence. I know well how the heart feels during
the first emotions of sorrow over bereavement. Words are useless. I
can only point you to Heaven, where all comfort dwells, and direct
you to remember in your prayers him who lies here. The church is
yours, with all her holy offices. The dearest friend must turn away
from the dead, but the church remains, and follows him into the other
world. Your heart may still be consoled, for you can still do
something for the dear father whom you loved. You can pray for the
soul of the departed, and thus it will seem to you as though you have
not altogether lost him. He will seem near you yet when you pray for
him; your spirit will seem to blend with his; his presence will seem
about you. And besides, my dear child, this also I wish to say: you
are not altogether alone in the world. I will watch over you till you
go wherever you may wish. It is not much that I can do; but perhaps I
can do for you all that you may now wish to be done for yourself.
Think of this, then, dear child, and whenever you wish to have a
friend's advice or assistance, come to me."

To this Mimi listened with streaming eyes; and as the priest ended,
she pressed his hand gratefully, and uttered some unintelligible
words. His offer had come to her like balm. It did not seem now as
though she was so desolate, for she had learned already to love the
good priest with something of a daughter's feelings, and to trust in
him profoundly.

Laborde was buried in the little churchyard of Grand Pré; and now,
in addition to the pangs of bereavement, Mimi began to feel other
cares about her future. What was she to do? Could she go back to
France? That was her only present course. But how? She could not go
in the Aigle, for that frigate had left the day after her arrival,
not having any time to spare. There was no other way of going to
France now, except by going first to Louisbourg, and taking a ship
from that place. But she was not left very long in suspense, for, two
or three days after her father's burial, the Count de Cazeneau came
to see her.

"I hope," he began, "that it is not necessary for me to say to you
how deeply I sympathize with you in your bereavement, for I myself
have my own bereavement to mourn over--the loss of my best, my only
friend, the friend of a lifetime, the high-minded, the noble Laborde.
The loss to me is irrevocable, and never can I hope to find any mere
friend who may fill his place. We were always inseparable. We were
congenial in taste and in spirit. My coming to America was largely
due to his unfortunate resolve to come here, a resolve which I always
combated to the best of my ability, and over which you and I must now
mourn. But regrets are useless, and it remains for both of us to see
about the future."

This somewhat formal opening was quite characteristic of Cazeneau,
who, being of a distant, reserved nature, very seldom allowed himself
to unbend; and, though he threw as much softness into his voice and
manner as he was capable of using, yet Mimi felt repelled, and
dreaded what might be coming.

"When we were first picked up by the Aigle," he continued, "it was in
my power either to go direct to Louisbourg, or to come here, and then
go on by land. I chose to come here, for two reasons; first, because
I hoped that my dear friend would be benefited by reaching the land
as soon as possible, and I thought that the pure, fresh air, and
genial climate, and beautiful scenery of this lovely place would
exercise upon him an immediate effect for the better. Another purpose
which I had was an official one. I wished to see this place and this
people with reference to my own administration and designs for the
future. Unhappily, my hopes for my friend have proved unfounded, and
my only consolation is that, though I have been disappointed as a
private man in my affections, yet, as a public official, I have been
able, during my short stay here, to do good service to my country, in
a way which my country's enemies shall feel at a vital point before
another year has passed away."

To this Mimi had nothing to say, for it was all preliminary, and she
expected something more. She therefore waited in silence, though with
much trepidation, to see what it might be that this man had in view
with regard to her. Cazeneau then continued:--

"As I have now done all that I intended to do in this place, it is my
intention to set forth for Louisbourg by land. I have some faithful
Indians as guides, and the journey is not very fatiguing. In
Louisbourg you will be able to obtain every comfort, and there will
be friends and associates for you, your own social equals, who may
make your life pleasanter than it has been for a long time."

By this Cazeneau directly stated his intention of taking Mimi with
him to Louisbourg--a statement which did not surprise Mimi, for it
was what she had expected. Now, however, that he said this, and in
this way, without pretending to ask her consent, her trepidation
increased, and she thought with terror over that long and lonely
journey, which she would have to make with this man and a band of
savages. There was nothing else, however, to be done. She could
neither hope nor desire to remain in Grand Pré. Her position was a
painful one, and the only hope remaining was that of returning to
France. And to go to Louisbourg was the surest way of doing that. One
thing, however, she could not help asking, for this she felt to be a
matter of extreme importance.

"Is Père Michel going?"

"He is," said Cazeneau. "He has asked permission to go with our
party, and I have granted it."

At this answer a great relief was felt by Mimi, and the future seemed
less dark.

"I have granted it," said Cazeneau, "because he seems a harmless man,
and may be useful in various ways to me, hereafter, in my plans. He
seems to know the people about here. I dare say he's been here
before.

"Your position at Louisbourg," continued Cazeneau, "will be one which
will be most honorable: as the daughter of the Count de Laborde, you
will receive universal attention, and my influence shall be exerted
to make everything contribute to your happiness. As commandant, I
shall, of course, be supreme; my house will be like a small
vice-regal court, and the little world of Louisbourg will all do
homage to any one whom I may hold up before them as a worthy object."

Cazeneau paused after he had said this. It was a speech which was
uttered slowly and with emphasis, but its meaning was not altogether
apparent to Mimi. Still there was enough of it intelligible to her to
make it seem excessively unpleasant. What he exactly meant was of no
importance, the general meaning being certainly this: that he
designed for her some prolonged stay there, during which he intended
to secure homage and respect for her. Now, that was a thing that Mimi
recoiled from with distaste. She had always detested this man, she
had always shrunk from him. Her present position of dependence was
most bitter; but to have that position continue was intolerable. It
was as though he tried to put himself into the place of her beloved
father,--he, whom she regarded as her father's evil genius,--as
though he intended to make himself her guardian, and introduce her as
his ward.

"You speak," said she, in a trembling voice, "just as--as if--I--you
supposed that I was going to live at Louisbourg."

"And where else do you wish to live?" asked Cazeneau, placidly.

"I want to go home," said Mimi, her eyes filling with tears, and her
voice sounding like the wail of a child that has lost its way.

"My poor child," said Cazeneau, more tenderly than he had yet spoken,
"you evidently do not understand your position as yet. I did not
intend to say anything about it; but, since you feel this way, and
have spoken so, I suppose I must make some explanation. Well, then,
my poor child, when your father left France on this unfortunate
errand, he turned all his property into money, expecting to use that
money in America in some way, in that mysterious design of his which
brought him out here. All this money was on board the Arethuse with
him, and it is hardly necessary to say that it was all lost. I know
that his grief over this, and the thought that he was leaving you
penniless, did more to shorten his life than the sufferings which he
had on the sea. He sank under it. He told me that he could not rally
from it; and it was his utter hopelessness that made him give way so
completely. So, my poor child, this is your present situation: your
father's estates are sold, and are now in the hands of strangers;
your father's money is now at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean; so
that to return to France is, for the present, at least, not to be
thought of.

"For my part," continued Cazeneau, as Mimi sat there dumb with horror
at hearing this fresh and crushing news, "I do not see anything in
your situation which need give you one moment's uneasiness. You have
lost your father, but your father's best friend still lives, and he
will never see the daughter of his friend know one single trouble, if
he can help it. We were more than brothers. Suppose you try to think
of me with something of the same confidence that your father felt. I,
for my part, will put you in his place. You shall never know a care.
You may consider yourself rich. You shall have no trouble except that
deep sorrow which you feel as a fond daughter."

"I cannot live in America," moaned Mimi, despairingly, recoiling in
her heart from Cazeneau, and dreading him more than ever. "I cannot.
I want to go home; or, if I have no home, I want to go to France. I
will enter a convent."

Cazeneau smiled at this.

"Such a wish, dear child," said he, "is quite natural now, in the
first freshness of your bereavement; but time alleviates all sorrow,
and you may think differently hereafter. As to returning to France,
you shall most certainly do that. I intend to go back after a time;
and you will once more live in our dear, native land. But, for the
present, let us not talk of these things. Louisbourg is now our
destination. Fear nothing. You shall not know a care. You shall be
guarded from every want, and every wish shall be gratified. You shall
find yourself surrounded by the most anxious, and tender, and
solicitous care for your happiness."

These last words were spoken in a warmer and more impassioned manner
than Cazeneau had thus far used, and their effect upon Mimi was so
much the more unpleasant. He then raised her hand to his lips with
respectful affection, and took his departure.

Mimi was for a time quite overwhelmed. The sorrow which she had
experienced for her father gave way to a new feeling--one of terror,
deep, dark, and irremovable--about herself and her own future. All
Cazeneau's words recurred to her, and the more she thought of them,
the more hateful did they seem. Out of them all several things
appeared plain to her mind.

First, that she was a pauper. Of Cazeneau's words she did not doubt
the truth. It seemed in the highest degree probable. She had all
along known that her father had come to America to search after some
of the Montresors, and to made reparation. Cazeneau now had informed
her that he had turned all his property into money. It must have been
for that purpose. The thought had never occurred to her before; but,
now that it was stated, she did not dream of doubting it. It seemed
too true.

Secondly, she saw that Cazeneau, for some reason or other, was
determined to keep her under his control. He was determined not to
allow her to return to France, and not to enter a convent. He was
bent upon associating her with his own life, and causing her to be
admired in Louisbourg. Added to this was his promise to take her back
to France with himself. All this showed that he would on no account
allow her to part with him. What was the meaning of it all? And now
the thought could no longer be kept out of her mind: Cazeneau's
purpose was to make her his wife.

His wife!

The thought was to her most odious; but, having once presented
itself, she could not argue it away, nor could she get rid of it at
all. Yes, that was the meaning that lurked behind his words all the
time. That was the meaning of his promise to make her admired and
happy.

Finally, she remembered how he had stated to her the fact that he was
supreme in Louisbourg, and that through his grandeur she was to
receive homage from all the lesser throng. To her this seemed like a
plain statement that she was in his power, and entirely at his mercy.

And now, what could she do? The future was worse than ever. She was
completely in the power of a man whom she detested--a man upon whom
she looked as her father's evil genius, as one whose evil counsel had
long ago led her father to that act which he had atoned for by
remorse and death. She was now in the hands of this villain. Escape
seemed impossible. He was supreme here. From him there was no appeal.
And she was a beggar. But, even if she were rich, what hope could she
have against him?

As she asked herself this question, there was no answer. She did not
know what she could do, and could scarcely hope that she would ever
know.

It was in this state of mind that Père Michel found her, on the
evening of that day. Mimi saw his arrival with intense delight. Here
seemed one who might relieve her in her distress. Accordingly she
proceeded to tell him her whole story, all the words of Cazeneau,
with all their implied meaning, and all her own fears, from beginning
to end.

The priest heard her narration in profound silence, and after she had
told him all, he remained in deep thought for some time, while Mimi
sat anxiously awaiting what he might say.

"My dear child," said the priest, at length, "it is difficult for me
to give you advice, for your situation is most unpleasant, and most
distressing to me. I can only entreat you to put your trust in that
Heaven who never deserts the innocent. You must go to
Louisbourg--there is no hope of escaping that. Besides, you yourself
wish to go there. The Count de Cazeneau certainly has the chief power
there; but whether he is omnipotent remains to be seen. Who knows
what other powers may be there? I have known cases where the
commandant has had powerful rivals,--such as the admiral of the
fleet, or some subordinate who had influence at court at home. I have
known places where the bishop could interfere and prevent his doing
wrong. So, be calm, my daughter, put your trust in Heaven, and
recollect that the commandant cannot break through all restraints,
but that there must be some barriers that he cannot force. If you
wish the protection of the church, that will always be yours. Beware
how you do anything rashly. Confide in me. Perhaps, after all, these
troubles may have a good end."




CHAPTER XI.

A FRIEND IN NEED.


For more than a week Claude had been kept in confinement, and had
seen nothing of any of his former acquaintances. The confinement was
not so close as it might have been, and escape was not absolutely
impossible, for the window which lighted the chamber was merely a
wooden sash, with four panes of glass, which Claude could have
removed, had he been so disposed; but this he was not inclined to do,
and for two reasons. One reason was, because, if he did get out, he
had no idea where to go. Annapolis Royal was the nearest settlement
belonging to the English; but he did not know in which direction it
lay. He knew, however, that between Grand Pré and that place the
country was settled by the French, among whom he could not go without
being captured by his pursuers, while if he took to the woods he
would be sure to fall into the hands of the Indians, who were the
zealous allies of the French. Such a prospect was of itself
sufficient to deter him from the attempt to escape. But there was
also another reason. He could not bear the thought of leaving Mimi
forever, and never seeing her again. If he should succeed in escaping
to Annapolis Royal, it would be an eternal separation between her and
himself. Grand Pré seemed pleasant to him since she was here; and he
thought it better to be a prisoner here than a free man elsewhere.
He, therefore, deliberately preferred to run any risk that might be
before him, with the faint hope of seeing Mimi again, rather than to
attempt flight.

What had happened since he had come here he did not know very
clearly. From conversation which he had overheard he had gathered
that Labordo was dead; but, when he asked any of them about it, they
refused to tell him anything at all. Claude was, therefore, left to
make the most that he could out of this vague information. But the
intelligence caused him to feel much anxiety about Mimi. He
remembered well all that she had ever told him, and could not help
wondering what she would do under present circumstances. Would she be
willing to remain in the neighborhood of Cazeneau? But how could she
help it? Would not Cazeneau take advantage of her present loneliness
to urge forward any plans that he might have about her?

Already the suspicion had come to Claude that Cazeneau had certain
plans about Mimi. What he thought was this: that Laborde was rich,
that Mimi was his heiress, and that Cazeneau was a man of profligate
life and ruined fortunes, who was anxious to repair his fortunes by
marrying this heiress. To such a man the disparity in their years
would make no difference, nor would he particularly care whether Mimi
loved him or not, so long as he could make her his wife, and gain
control over her property. What had given him this idea about
Cazeneau's position and plans it is difficult to say; but it was
probably his own jealous fears about Mimi, and his deep detestation
of his enemy.

And now he began to chafe against the narrow confines of his chamber
with greater impatience. He longed to have some one with whom he
could talk. He wondered whether Cazeneau would remain here much
longer, and, if he went away, whether he would take Mimi or leave
her. He wondered, also, whether he would be taken to Louisbourg. He
felt as if he would rather go there, if Mimi was to go, even at the
risk of his life, than remain behind after she had left. But all his
thoughts and wonders resulted in nothing whatever, for it was
impossible to create any knowledge out of his own conjectures.

He was in the midst of such thoughts as these when his ears were
attracted by the sound of a familiar voice. He listened attentively.
It was the voice of Père Michel. No sooner had Claude satisfied
himself that it was indeed the priest, than he felt sure that he had
come here to visit him; and a little longer waiting showed that this
was the case. There were advancing footsteps. Madame Comeau opened
the door, and Père Michel entered the chamber. The door was then
shut, and the two were alone.

So overcome was Claude by joy that he flung himself into the priest's
arms and embraced him. The good priest seemed to reciprocate his
emotion, for there were tears in his eyes, and the first words that
he spoke were in tremulous tones.

"My son," the priest commenced, in gentle, paternal tones, and in a
voice that was tremulous with emotion, "you must calm yourself."
Then, suddenly speaking in English, he said, "It is necessaire dat we
sall spik Ingeles, for ze peuple of ze house may suspeck--"

Upon this Claude poured forth a torrent of questions in English,
asking about Laborde, Cazeneau, Zac, and Mimi. It will not be
necessary to report the words of the priest in his broken English,
but rather to set them down according to the sense of them. So the
priest said,--

"You speak too fast, my son. One thing at a time. The poor Laborde is
dead and buried. The Count Cazeneau is about to go to Louisbourg.
Mimi is going with him."

"Mimi going with him!" cried Claude, in deep agitation.

"Be calm, my son. Do not speak so loud. I have told the people of
this house that your life is in danger, and that I have come as a
priest, to hear your last confession. I do not wish them to suspect
my real errand. We may talk as we wish, only do not allow yourself to
be agitated."

"But tell me," said Claude, in a calmer voice, "how is it possible
that Mimi can trust herself with Cazeneau?"

"_Ma foi_," said the priest, "it is possible, for she cannot help it.
But do not fear. I am going to accompany them, and, as far as my
feeble power can do anything, I will watch over her, and see that she
suffers no injustice. I hope that Heaven will assist her innocence
and my protection; so do not allow yourself to be uneasy about her;
but hope for the best, and trust in Heaven."

At this Claude was silent for a few moments. At length he said,--

"O, Père Michel, must I stay here when she goes? Can you tell me what
they are going to do with me?"

"It is about yourself that I am going to speak, and it was for this
that I came," said the priest.

"Can I go with the others to Louisbourg?" asked Claude, eagerly; for
he thought only of being near Mimi.

"Heaven forbid!" said the priest. "It is in a for different way that
you are to go. Listen to me. The Count de Cazeneau is going to set
out to-morrow, with a party of Indians as escort. Mimi is to be taken
with him. I am going, too. It is his intention to leave you here for
a time, till his escort can return. They will then take you to
Louisbourg. If he can find any Indians on the way whom he can make
use of, he will send them here for you. But meantime you are to be
kept imprisoned here.

"Now, I am acquainted with the Indians better than most men. I lived
in Acadie formerly, long enough to be well known to the whole tribe.
I am also well known to the Acadians. Among the Indians and the
Acadians there are many who would willingly lay down their lives for
me. I could have delivered you before this, but I saw that you were
not in any immediate danger; so I preferred postponing it until the
Count de Cazeneau had left. I do not wish him to suspect that I have
any interest in you; and when he hears of your escape, I do not wish
him to think that I had anything to do with it. But I have already
made all the plans that are necessary, and the men are in this
neighborhood with whom I have arranged for your escape."

"What is the plan?" asked Claude, eagerly.

"I will tell you," said the priest. "There are six Indians, all of
them devoted to me. They will guide you to a place of safety, and
will be perfectly faithful to you as long as they are with you. They
are ready to go anywhere with you, to do anything for you, even to
the extent of laying down their lives for you. It is for my sake that
they are willing to show this devotion. I have presented you to them
as my representative, and they look upon you as they would look upon
me. But, first of all, you are to get out of this. Can you open that
window?"

"It was fastened tight when I first came," said Claude; "but I have
loosened it, so that I can take it out very quickly."

"Very good. Now, one of these Indians will be here to-morrow night.
We shall leave to-morrow morning; and I do not want you to be rescued
till after our departure. At midnight, to-morrow, then, the Indian
will be here. He will give a sound like a frog, immediately outside,
under the window. You must then open the window. If you see him, or
hear him, you must then get out, and he will take you to the woods.
After that he and the rest of the Indians will take you through the
woods to Port Royal, which they call Annapolis Royal. Here you will
be safe from Cazeneau until such time as may suit you to go back to
Boston. Annapolis Royal is about twenty-four leagues from this place,
and you can easily go there in two days."

Claude listened to all this without a word; and, after the priest had
ended, he remained silent for some time, with his eyes fixed on the
floor.

"The Indians will be armed," said the priest, "and will have a rifle
and a sword for you. So you need have no trouble about anything."

"My dear Père Michel," said Claude, at last, "you lay me under very
great obligations; but will you not add to them by allowing me to
select my own route?"

"Your own route?" asked the priest. "What do you mean? You don't know
the country, especially the woods, while these Indians will be at
home there."

"What I mean is this," said Claude: "will you not allow me the use of
this Indian escort in another direction than the one you mention?"

"Another direction? Why, where else can you possibly go? Annapolis is
the nearest place for safety."

"I should very much prefer," said Claude "to go to Canso."

"To Canso!" said the priest, in great surprise; "to Canso! Why, you
would come on our track!"

"That is the very reason why I wish to go there. Once in Canso, I
should be as safe as in Annapolis."

The priest shook his head.

"From what I hear, Canso cannot be a safe place for you very long.
England and France are on the eve of war, and Cazeneau expects to get
back Acadie--a thing that is very easy for him to do. But why do you
wish to venture so near to Louisburg? Cazeneau will be there now; and
it will be a very different place from what it would have been had
you not saved Cazeneau from the wreck, and made him your enemy."

"My dear Père Michel," said Claude, "I will be candid with you. The
reason why I wish to go in that direction is for the sake of being
near to Mimi, and on account of the hope I have that I may rescue
her."

"Mimi! Rescue her!" exclaimed the priest, astonished, not at the
young man's feelings towards Mimi, for those he had already
discovered, but rather at the boldness of his plan,--"rescue her! Why
how can you possibly hope for that, when she will be under the
vigilant eye of Cazeneau?"

"I will hope it, at any rate," said Claude. "Besides, Cazeneau will
not be vigilant, as he will not suspect that he is followed. His
Indians will suspect nothing. I may be able, by means of my Indians,
to entice her away, especially if you prepare her mind for my
enterprise."

The priest was struck by this, and did not have any argument against
it; yet the project was evidently distasteful to him.

"It's madness," said he. "My poor boy, it may cost you your life."

"Very well," said Claude; "let it go. I'd rather not live, if I can't
have Mimi."

The priest looked at him sadly and solemnly.

"My poor boy," said he, "has it gone so far as that with you?"

"As far as that--yes," said Claude, "and farther. Recollect I saved
her life. It seems to me as if Heaven threw her in my way; and I'll
not give her up without striking a blow. Think of that scoundrel
Cazeneau. Think of the danger she is in while under his power. There
is no hope for her if he once gets her in Louisbourg; the only hope
for her is before she reaches that place; and the only one who can
save her is myself. Are my Indians faithful for an enterprise of that
kind?"

"I have already told you," said the priest, "that they would all lay
down their lives for you. They will go wherever you lead. And now, my
dear son," continued the priest, "I did not think that you would
dream of an enterprise like this. But, since you have made the
proposal, and since you are so earnest about it, why, I make no
opposition. I say, come, in Heaven's name. Follow after us; and, if
you can come up with us, and effect a communication with Mimi, do so.
Your Indians must be careful; and you will find that they can be
trusted in a matter of this kind. If I see that you are coming up
with us, and find any visitors from you, I will prepare Mimi for it.
But suppose you succeed in rescuing her," added the priest; "have you
thought what you would do next?"

"No," said Claude; "nor do I intend to think about that. It will
depend upon where I am. If I am near Canso, I shall go there, and
trust to finding some fisherman; if not, I shall trust to my Indians
to take us back through the woods to Annapolis. But there's one thing
that you might do."

"What?"

"Zac--is he on board the schooner, or ashore?"

"The skipper?" said the priest. "No. I have not seen him. I think he
must be aboard the schooner. It is my intention to communicate with
him before I leave this place."

"Do so," said Claude, eagerly; "and see if you can't get him free, as
you have managed for me; and if you can persuade him, or beg him for
me, to sail around to Canso, and meet me there, all will be well.
That is the very thing we want. If he will only promise to go there,
I will push on to Canso myself, at all hazards."

The priest now prepared to go. A few more words were exchanged, after
which Claude and Père Michel embraced. The priest kissed him on both
cheeks.

"Adieu, my dear son," said he. "I hope we may meet again."

"Adieu, dear Père Michel," said Claude. "I shall never forget your
kindness."

With this farewell the two separated; the priest went out, and the
door was fastened again upon Claude.

For the remainder of that night, Claude did not sleep much. His mind
was filled with the new prospect that the priest's message had opened
before him. The thought of being free once more, and at the head of a
band of devoted followers, on the track of Mimi, filled him with
excitement. That he would be able to overtake the party of Cazeneau,
he did not doubt; that he would be able to rescue Mimi, he felt
confident. The revulsion from gloom and despondency to hope and joy
was complete, and the buoyant nature of Claude made the transition an
easy one. It was with difficulty that he could prevent himself from
bursting forth into songs. But this would have been too dangerous,
since it would have attracted the attention of the people of the
house, and led them to suspect that the priest had spoken other words
to him than those of absolution; or they might report this sudden
change to Cazeneau, and thereby excite his suspicions.

The next day came. Claude knew that on this day Cazeneau and his
party had left, for he overheard the people of the house speaking
about it. According to their statements, the party had left at about
four in the morning. This filled Claude with a fever of impatience,
for he saw that this first day's march would put them a long way
ahead, and make it difficult for him to catch up with them. But there
was only one day, and he tried to comfort himself with the thought
that he could travel faster than the others, and also that the priest
and Mimi would both manage to retard their progress, so as to allow
him to catch up.

The day passed thus, and evening came at last. Hour after hour went
by. All the family retired, and the house was still. Claude then
slowly, and carefully, and noiselessly removed the window from its
place. Then he waited. The hours still passed on. At last he know
that it must be about midnight.

Suddenly he heard, immediately outside, a low, guttural sound--the
well-known sound of a frog. It was the signal mentioned by the
priest. The time had come.

He put his head cautiously outside. Crouched there against the wall
of the house, close underneath, he saw a dusky figure. A low,
whispered warning came up. Claude responded in a similar manner.
Then, softly and noiselessly, he climbed out of the window. His feet
touched the ground. No one had heard him. He was saved.




CHAPTER XII.

THE PARSON AMONG THE PHILISTINES.


A map of this part of America, in this year, 1743, would show a very
different scene from that which is presented by one of the present
date. The country held by the English did not reach beyond the
Kennebec, although claimed by them. But north of this river it was
all in the virtual possession of the French, and on the map it was
distinguished by the French colors. A line drawn from the mouth of
the Penobscot, due north, to the River St. Lawrence, divided New
England from the equally extensive territory of New Scotland, or Nova
Scotia. This New England was bordered on the east by Nova Scotia, on
the north by the River St. Lawrence, and on the west by the province
of New York. But in New England the French colors prevailed over
quite one half of this territory; and in Nova Scotia, though all was
claimed by the English, every part was actually held by the French,
except one or two points of a most unimportant character.

Looking over such a map, we perceive the present characteristics all
gone, and a vast wilderness, full of roaming tribes of Indians,
filling the scene. North of Boston there are a few towns; but beyond
the little town of Falmouth, the English settlements are all called
Fort this and Fort that. Up the valley of the Kennebec is the mark of
a road to Quebec; and about half way, at the head waters of the
Kennebec, a point is marked on the map with these words: "_Indian and
French rendezvous. Extremely proper for a fort, which mould restrain
the French and curb the Abenakki Indians_." And also: "_From Quebec
to Kennebek River mouth, not much above half way to Boston, and one
third to New York, thence by that R. and ye Chaudiere ye road to
Canada is short_."

North of the St. Lawrence is a vast country, which is called New
France. As Old France and Old England struggle for the supremacy in
the old world, so New France and New England struggle for the
supremacy in the new world, and the bone of contention is this very
district alluded to,--this border-ground,--called by the French
L'Acadie, but claimed by the English as Nova Scotia, which bordered
both on New England and New France.

This debatable territory on the map is full of vast waste spaces,
together with the names of savage tribes never heard of before or
since, some of which are familiar names, merely spelled in an unusual
manner, while others owe their origin, perhaps, to the imagination of
the map-maker or his informant. Thus, for example, we have Massasuk,
Arusegenticook, Saga Dahok, and others of equally singular sound.

In this debatable territory are numerous forts, both French and
English. These are situated, for the most part, in the valleys of
rivers, for the very good reason that these valleys afford the best
places for settlement, and also for the further reason that they are
generally used as the most convenient routes of travel by those who
go by land from one post to another. These forts are numerous on the
west of New England; they also stud the map in various places towards
the north. The valley of the St. John, in Nova Scotia, is marked by
several of these. Farther on, the important isthmus which connects
the peninsula of Nova Scotia with the main land is protected by the
strong post called Fort Beausejour.

In this peninsula of Nova Scotia, various settlements are marked. One
is named Minas, which is also known as Grand Pré, a large and
important community, situated in one of the most beautiful and
fertile valleys in America. In the neighborhood of this are a half
dozen points, marked with the general name of French settlements,
while the vacant places between and beyond are marked with the name
Mic Macs, which is the title of the Indians who inhabit Nova Scotia.
One post here, however, possesses a singular interest in the eyes of
the good people of Boston. It is marked on the map by the name of
Annapolis, once the French Port Royal, but now the only English post
of any consequence in all Nova Scotia. Here resides the handful of
Englishmen who claim to rule the province. But the government is a
mockery, and the French set it at defiance. If England wishes to
assert her power here, she must have a far different force in the
country from the handful of ragged and ill-armed soldiers who mount
guard on the tumble-down forts at Annapolis.

Beyond all these, at the extreme east of the peninsula, is an island
called by the French Ile Royale, and by the English Cape Breton. This
is held by the French. Here is their greatest stronghold in America,
except Quebec, and one, too, which is regarded by Boston with greater
jealousy and dread than the latter, since it is actually nearer, is
open winter and summer, and can strike a more immediate blow.

This was the extreme eastern outpost of French power in America. Here
the French colonies reached out their arms to the mother country.
Here began that great chain of fortresses, which ran up the valleys
of navigable rivers, and connected with the great fortress of Quebec
the almost impregnable outpost of Ticonderoga, and the posts of
Montreal Island. From these the chain of military occupation extended
itself towards the south, through the valleys of the Ohio and the
Mississippi, until they were connected with the flourishing colony at
New Orleans.

Thus it was, and with these advantages, that the French engaged in
the great and momentous conflict with the English for the possession
of America, and on the side of the former were the greater part of
the wild and warlike Indians.

And now let us return to our friend Zac, who for some time has been
lost sight of.

When the Aigle came to anchor, the schooner did the same, and lay
under her guns some miles out from the shore. Zac had been allowed a
certain amount of freedom, for, as the lieutenant had promised, his
hands had not been bound. The same liberty was allowed to the others
on board. Six French seamen were on board, who navigated the
schooner, and acted as her guard. These were armed, while Zac and his
friends were all unarmed. While sailing up the bay this guard was
hardly necessary, as the schooner was under the guns of the frigate;
but afterwards the necessity was more apparent.

The Aigle could not wait at Grand Pré longer than was requisite to
land those who were going ashore. The boat that landed these brought
back a half dozen Acadians from Grand Pré, whom it left on board the
schooner. Then, taking back again her own seamen, the Aigle spread
her white wings and sailed away for _La Belle France_.

Zac saw this change in affairs with varied feelings. First of all, he
had half hoped that he might be let off, after all; partly because it
was not a time of formal war, and partly because the schooner had
saved some important lives, and therefore, at the very least, ought
to be let off. But this change in her masters dispelled Zac's hope,
and made him see that there was not at all any prospect of an
immediate release. From that moment Zac gave up all hope of any
release whatever, and began to see that, if escape were to be made,
it must be effected by his own skill and daring.

The new comers seemed willing to maintain the old state of things,
and showed no inclination to keep their prisoners in bonds. They were
a good-natured lot, with simple, unsophisticated faces, and looked
with amiable smiles upon the schooner and its company. Still, they
were all stout, able-bodied fellows, and all were armed. The leader
was a man of about forty, who seemed to be regarded by the rest with
considerable respect. He was also able to speak a few words of
English. They contented themselves with keeping a general lookout
over the schooner and its crew, and taking turns at the night watch.

In fact, the simple confidence of the Acadians in the security of
their guard seemed to be justified by circumstances. These six stout
men wore armed; Zac and his followers were unarmed. All the floating
craft in the Basin belonged to the Acadians, and all the settlements.
For Zac to escape by water was scarcely possible, and to get off by
land was not to be thought of. The nearest English settlement was
many miles away, and to reach it he would have to run the gantlet of
a population of French and Indians.

Day after day passed, and Zac spent most of the time in meditating
over his situation and keeping his eyes and ears on the alert. He
understood pretty well that to the villany of Cazeneau were due both
his own captivity and the more serious danger which threatened his
friend. It was from Margot that he had first heard of Cazeneau as an
enemy, and little more had he been able to find out beyond what she
had told him in the brief conversation already related. The illness
of Laborde had necessitated her attendance on her master and
mistress, and prevented any further confidences. Only a few
occasional greetings were possible after that. Then followed the
arrival of the Aigle, and the transfer of Margot, with the rest, to
the French frigate. Zac had consequently been left in the dark as to
the particular villany of Cazeneau towards Laborde and Mimi. But he
had seen enough and felt enough to be sure that his enmity, from
whatever cause it arose, was of no common kind, that Claude was in
great danger, and that he himself was involved in the same peril,
though to a less degree. This conviction served, therefore, to keep
his mind continually on the alert, so as to find out what was the
present situation of Claude, and also to devise and lay hold of some
plan of action for himself.

In his thoughts the good Père Michel was suggested as the only one
who could do anything for either of them. What his influence might
be, he could not guess; but he at least believed in his friendliness
and good faith, and he could not help feeling that the priest would
do all that was possible. It seemed to him not unlikely that the
priest might come out to see him, and convey to him some information
about the present state of affairs in Grand Pré. And besides this, he
could not help feeling a vague hope that, even if the priest were
unable to do anything, he might receive some sort of a message from
one whom he could not help as regarding in the light of a
friend--namely, the amiable Margot.

The situation had been accepted by the rest of the ship's company
without any great display of emotion. Biler's melancholy remained
unchanged, and still, as of yore, he passed much of his time at the
mast-head, contemplating the universe, and eating raw turnips.
Jericho remained as busy as ever, and cared for his pots, and his
kettles, and his pans, without apparently being conscious that his
master was a slave now, as well as himself. Upon Terry, also, the
yoke of captivity lay but lightly. It was not in the nature of Terry
to be downcast or sullen; and the simple expedients which had led him
to fraternize with the shipwrecked sailors had afterwards enabled him
to fraternize equally well with the crew of the Aigle that had been
put on board. These had gone, and it remained now for him to come to
an understanding with the Acadians. Constant practice had made him
more capable, and, in addition to his own natural advantages, he had
also learned a few French words, of which he made constant use in the
most efficient way. The Acadians responded to Terry's advances quite
as readily as any of the others had done; and before they had been on
board one day they were all singing and laughing with the merry Irish
lad, and going into fits of uproarious mirth at Terry's incessant use
of the few French words which he had learned; for it was Terry's
delight to stop each one of them, and insist on shaking hands,
whenever he met them, saying at the same time, with all the gravity
in the world,--

"_Commy voo party voo, bong tong. Bon jure, moosoo_!"

Thus nearly a week passed, and during all that time Zac had heard
nothing about the fate of his friends ashore. Neither the priest nor
Margot sent him any message whatever. The Acadians themselves did not
hold any communication with the shore, but remained on board quite
placidly, in a state of calm content--as placidly, indeed, as though
they had been living on board the Parson all their lives.

During all the time Zac had been meditating over his situation, and
trying to see his way out of it. At length a ray of light began to
dawn into his mind, which illuminated his present position, and
opened up to him a way of action. One day after dinner, while the
Acadians were lolling in the sun, and while Terry was smoking his
pipe forward, Zac sauntered up to him in a careless fashion, and
placing himself near Terry, where he could not be overheard, he began
to talk in an easy tone with the other,

"Terry, lad," said he, "I'm getting tired o' this here."

"Faix, an' it's mesilf that's been waitin' to hear ye say that same
for a week an' more--so it is."


[Illustration: "I Think We Can Manage To Get The Schooner From These
Chaps."]


"Wal, ye see, I ben a turnin' it over in my mind, and hain't
altogether seen my way clear afore; but now it seems to me as how
it's a burnin' shame to stand this here any longer."

"Thrue for you; an' so it is," said Terry. "An' so, ef ye've got
anythin' on yer mind that ye want to do, why, out with it, for I'm
your man."

"Wal, ye see," resumed Zac, "it's this here; I don't want to go away
out o' this jest yet."

"Not go away! Tare an ages," cried Terry; "d'ye want to be a
prisoner?"

"Course not. I mean this: I don't want to go an' leave my friend
here, Motier, in the hands of the Philistines."

"Sure ye can't do anythin' for him; an' he's among his own kin--so he
is; for he jabbers French ayqual to the best of thim."

"No, I can't do anything for him as I am; that's a fact; and so I'm
bound to put myself in a position whar I can do somethin'; that is,
I'm bound to seize this here schewner, an' bring the old Parson back
to the fold."

"Arrah, sure, an' that's the right sort of talk--so it is; an' it's
mesilf that's glad to hear ye. An' so, what is it, captain dear? Out
with it. Tell me what yer plan is, an' I'm wid ye--so I am."

"I think, Terry, that we can manage to get the schewner from these
chaps--can't we?"

"Sure we can. Sure, an' I'd ingage to do it alone, almost."

"They don't watch much."

"Not a bit of it."

"The two that watch at night sleep half the time."

"Sure, an' that's thrue for you, for I've seed thim at it whin I was
asleep mesilf."

"We can git Jericho to bar down the cabin door, Terry, an' then you
an' I can seize the two on deck."

"Aisy enough--so it is. They'll all be dead asleep--so they will."

"Wal, thar we'll have them; an' then I hope to be able to bring a
pressure on the natyves of these regions by which I may git my friend
out of their clutches."

"Sure, an' I don't onderstand ye at all, at all."

"Why, I'll have these six Acadians prisoners, an' then I'll sail up
off Grand Pré, an' threaten to cut the throats of all of them if they
don't send off Motier to me in ten minutes."

"Tare an' ages!" cried Terry. "Whoroo! but isn't that the plan? It
is. It bates the wurruld--so it does. An whin'll ye begin, captain
darlint?"

"To-night," said Zac.




CHAPTER XIII.

A STROKE FOE LIBERTY.


Zac and Terry talked for a long time over the plan, trying to chat in
an off-hand and careless manner, so as not to excite any suspicion.
No suspicion appeared to be raised among the Acadians, who took no
notice of them whatever. So Zac and Terry had sufficient opportunity
to arrange all the details of the plan, and it was decided that Terry
should indicate to Jericho what was to be done by him. It was agreed
that the best time would be about three o'clock in the morning; for
then the Acadians below would all be in their soundest sleep, while
those who kept watch on deck would probably, in accordance with their
usual careless fashion, be sunk into a slumber no less sound. Terry
at length left Zac, and moved about in a desultory fashion, after
which he finally settled down among the Acadians, and began to sing
to them the immortal strain of St. Patrick.

Although Zac had upon his mind the weight of such an important
enterprise, yet it did not at all interfere with his usual slumbers.
He went to bed at nine, and slept soundly. At about half past two he
awoke, and waited a little longer. Then he roused Terry and Jericho.
Terry then went upon deck noiselessly, and reconnoitred. It was as
they had hoped it would be. Two men were on deck as a watch, but both
were crouched under the taffrail fast asleep. Terry proposed to go
and shut down the cabin door, where the rest of the Acadians were;
but Zac concluded that it would be best for Jericho to do this, so
that in case the noise should wake the watch, he and Terry might be
on hand to deal with them. Jericho was now sent aft, charged with the
burden of an important commission. He went softly and swiftly, like a
spirit of night. His whole nature seemed changed by the purpose
before him. In an instant he had ceased to be the lowly slave intent
on cookery, and had started up into the attitude of an African
warrior. As he glided along, Zac and Terry, with equal noiselessness,
moved towards the slumbering watch, and then waited. It was necessary
that the cabin should first be closed, so that those within, if
alarmed by the outcry of their friends, should not be able to help
them.

All went on well. Jericho reached the cabin, and then swiftly, and
with as little noise as possible, shut the door and fastened it. Upon
this, Zac and Terry each seized one of the slumbering Acadians, and
before they were fairly awake they were disarmed.

Zac and Terry both scorned to bind them, partly out of kindly feeling
towards them, partly because they themselves had not been bound, and
partly out of the pride of their manhood. The Acadians at first stood
stupefied, and then, recognizing the whole truth, they slunk forward,
and stood dejectedly in the bows, where they awaited with fear the
further action of their late prisoners.

Both Terry and Zac made friendly signs to them, pressing their hands
on their hearts, smiling, nodding, and so forth; while Terry even
went so far as to whistle one of their favorite melodies. But the
Acadians were not to be reassured. They looked upon themselves as
lost men, and evidently regarded Terry as a traitor of the deepest
dye.

They now waited till the others in the cabin should make some sign.
Jericho had armed himself with an axe, with which he stood ready to
act in case of a fight. It was evident that the Acadians in the cabin
had heard nothing whatever, and not one of them awaked before the
usual time. Then, of course, the painful discovery was made by them.
At first, loud cries and threats were made; but these were stilled by
Zac, who in a voice of thunder awed them into silence.

"You are prisoners!" said he. "Give up your arms."

The one who understood a little English was able to comprehend this.
The command was followed by an excited debate among the four, which
was at last ended by a second mandate from Zac, accompanied by a
threat to fire upon them. At this a hurried answer was given:--

"We render. We render. Fire not."

A small skylight was then opened, and all the arms and equipments of
the prisoners were passed up. These were appropriated by Zac. The
door of the cabin was then unfastened and opened, and the prisoners
called upon to come forth. They came looking fearful and dejected, as
though apprehending the worst. Zac, Terry, and Jericho, each with his
musket, stood at the stern, and as they came out they motioned to
them to go to the bows. The Acadians obeyed in silence, and soon
joined their two companions.

Some time was now occupied by Zac in talking over with Terry the best
course to be pursued. They at length decided to allow the Acadians to
remain unbound by day, and to shut them down at night, or while
sailing. As long as these men were unarmed and themselves armed, they
had not the slightest fear of any trouble arising. For the Acadians,
though stout, muscular fellows, were all so good-natured and
phlegmatic in their faces that no danger of anything so desperate as
an attack on their part was to be anticipated. It was decided,
however, while they were on deck, to keep them confined to the
forward part of the schooner.

This Zac succeeded in making known to them.

"We won't do you no harm," said he. "We won't tie you or bind you. At
night you must go below to sleep. If any of you make an attack, we
won't show you any mercy. So you'd best keep quiet."

The chief Acadian understood this as well by the signs with which it
was accompanied as from the words, and he explained it to his
followers. He then informed Zac that they would be quiet; whereupon
Terry went forward and shook hands with each and all of them. "_Commy
porty-voo? Bon jure, moosoo_," said he; to which the Acadians,
however, made no response. They did indeed allow him to shake their
hands; but they would not say anything, and evidently regarded him as
a perjured villain, and traitor to their cause.

"Biler!" roared Zac. "Whar are you, you young cuss of life?"

Upon this the young cuss of life slowly emerged from the forecastle,
holding a cold potato in his hand. The scene on deck made no
impression on him, but he walked aft with his eyes fixed on Zac.

"Stand there!" commanded Zac; and Biler stood.

"Feller seamen and comrades at arms," said Zac, stretching out his
arm in the oratorical fashion which he had seen used at town meetings
"to hum." "This is a gellorious day for his great and gracious
majesty King George, whose loyal subjects we air, as we have proved
by this rescoo of his ship from the hands of the Philistines. It air
all very well for the king to send out his red-coats; but I tell you
what it is, I ain't seen a red-coat that lives that's equal to the
natyve pro-vincial. Who air the ones that doos the best fightin' out
here? The pro-vincials! Who air the men that's druv the wild and
bloodthusty Injin back to his natyve woods? The pro-vincial! And who
air the men that's goin' to settle the business of Moosoo, an' make
America too hot to hold him an' his'n? The red-coats? Nay; but
rayther the pro-vincials, the men that's fit the catamounts, an'
bars, an' Injins, an' turned the waste an' howlin' wilderness into a
gardin', an' made the desert blossom like a rose. So, I say, Hooray
for the pro-vincials!"

At this Zac removed his hat. Terry did the same; so did Jericho.
Biler had none to remove, but he raised his potato in the air. Zac
led off--"Hip, hip, hip, h-o-o-o-r-a-a-a-y!"

"Arrah, captain, darlint, an' while yo's about it, sure ye won't be
forgettin' ould Ireland," cried Terry, as the ringing cheers died
away over the waters.

"Certingly," said Zac. "Course. Here goes!"

And three cheers in the same fashion followed for Terry's native
land.

"Tare an' ages!" cried Terry; "an' while we're about it, sure an'
we's ought to give three chairs for Africa, in honor of Jericho."

"Hooray!" cried Zac. "Here goes!" And three cheers followed for
Africa. Whether Jericho knew much about Africa, may be a question;
but he understood at least that this honor was offered to himself,
and accepted it accordingly. It almost overwhelmed him. A wild
chuckle of spasmodic delight burst from him, which threatened to end
in a convulsion. And though he rallied from this, yet he was quite
demoralized, and it was a long time before he settled down into that
sedate old darky which was his normal condition.

And now Zac waited. Finding himself in command of his own schooner
again, he felt more able to act in case of necessity. He was so far
out from the shore that he was easily able to guard against the
unexpected arrival of any boat. By day he lay at anchor; but when
night came the Acadians were sent below, the anchor was raised, and
the schooner cruised about the bay. The strong tides and currents
caused a little trouble, but Zac soon got the run of them, at least
in a general way, and several nights were thus passed. At length he
began to grow impatient, and felt quite at a loss what to do. He was
half inclined to send one of the Acadians ashore with a message, but
as yet concluded to wait a little longer.

The Acadians, whether from fear or policy, did as they promised, and
kept quiet. They kept by themselves always, and refused to accept the
advances of Terry, though they were frequently made. They all
appeared listless and dejected, and the smiles, the laughter, and the
singing which had characterized their first days on board had all
passed away, and given place to low, murmured conversation or
silence.

At length, one evening at about six o'clock, Zac saw a solitary boat
coming from the shore. It was a long way off when he first saw it,
and it seemed to be coming towards the schooner. The tide was
unfavorable, so that the progress was quite slow; but its course lay
steadily towards him, and Zac, who watched it intently, was turning
over in his mind his best plan of action. It did not seem large
enough to contain any very formidable force; but Zac thought best to
take every precaution, and so sent all the Acadians below, while
Terry and Jericho stood ready for action.

The time passed away, and the boat drew steadily nearer. At length it
came near enough for Zac to see that it was rowed by two men, which
sight was most welcome, since it assured him that no danger was to be
apprehended. As he watched it, the boat drew nearer and nearer. He
said nothing, but waited for them to speak first. He could see that
both of the men were unarmed.

At last the boat touched the schooner's side. One of the men leaped
on board, securing the boat, and the other followed immediately. They
were both dressed like all the Acadians, but the second boatman had a
slouched hat, which concealed his face. Zac, who carelessly regarded
him, noticed that he was a smooth-faced boy, while the first boatman
was a grizzled old man.

Both of these looked around, and seemed surprised. At length the boy
advanced towards Zac.

"Capitaine," said this boy, "what ees dees? You no seem a
preesonaire. You haf a gun. Air you free?"

At the sound of this voice Zac started back a step or two in utter
amazement. Could it be possible? Yet that voice could not belong to
any other. It must be. And even as he stood thus bewildered, the boy
raised his hat with a shy smile, with which there was also much
sadness mingled, and revealed the face of the little Margot.

"Wal," exclaimed Zac, "this doos beat creation!"

Zac then caught both her hands, and held them in a tight grip, and
for a few moments could not speak.

"I do feel good, little one," said he, in a tremulous voice. "This
here's what I ben a waitin' for--to see you--an' you only--though I
skurse dared to hope it. At any rate, I did hope and feel that you
wouldn't go off without a word, and no more you heven't; an' I feel
so happy that I could cry."

It was not exaggerated. Honest Zac was unused to such emotions, and
hardly understood them. His eyes were moist as he looked upon Margot,
and she saw that his simple confession was true. Her own emotion was
as great as his. Tears started to her own eyes, and in her sadness
she leaned on his arm and wept. Whereupon Zac's tears fell in spite
of him, and he began to call himself a darned fool, and her a dear
little pet; till the scolding of himself and the soothing of M

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