On the following day, being Tuesday, November 16, 1855, and my twenty-seventh birthday, I went down to Grand Pré. I am thus precise about the date, for I felt as I set forth that the issues of life and death hung upon my going. Right here, it seemed to me, was a very knife-edge of a day, which should sever and allot to me for all the future my part of joy or ruin. Surely, thought I,—to justify my expectation of colossal events,—I have not lain these long months dead, that action, once more started, should dribble like a spent stream.

Therefore I went, like a careful strategist, equipped with all the knowledge Gr?l could give. I had planned how to reach Father Fafard, and through him how to reach Yvonne. And as the day was to be a great one, I thought well it should be a long one. I set out upon the palest promise of daybreak.

My strength, under one compelling purpose, had 162come back; and it seemed to me that I saw events and their chances with radiating clearness. So up-strung were my nerves that the long tramp seemed over in a few minutes, and I found myself, almost with surprise, at the lower ford of the Gaspereau, just under the hill which backs Grand Pré. Here was the thick wood wherein I planned to lie perdu, in the event of dangerous passers. In a little while there came in view a woman, heavy-eyed and dishevelled, carrying a basket of new-baked barley bread, very sweet to smell. It was clear she was one with an interest in the prisoners at the chapel. In such a case I could have no fear of stumbling upon a traitor. I stepped out to her.

“Would that he, too,” said I significantly, “had gone to the woods in time!”

Her eyes ran over with the ready and waiting tears; but she jerked her apron jealously over the loaves, and looked at me with a touch of resentment, as if to say, “Why had you such foresight, and not he?”

“He went to hear the reading, and they took him,” she moaned. “And who will keep the little ones from starving in the winter coming on?”

“It is where I, too, would be now—in the chapel prison yonder,” said I gently. “But I lay in the woods, wounded, too sick to go to the reading, so I escaped.”

The resentment faded out. She saw that I was 163not one of those who shamed her husband’s credulity. I might have been caught too, had I been given the same chance.

“For the little ones, I pray you accept this silver, and count it a loan to your husband in his prison,” said I, slipping two broad Spanish pieces into her hand.

She looked grateful and astonished, but had no words ready.

“And do, I beg of you, a kindness to one in bitter need of it,” I went on. “You know Father Fafard?”

Her face lightened with love.

“He grieves for me, thinking me dead,” said I. “Tell him, I beg of you, that one who loves him waits to see him in the wood by the lower ford.”

Her face clouded with suspicion.

“How shall I know—how shall he know—you are honest?” she asked.

I was troubled.

“You must judge by your woman’s wit,” said I. “And he will come. He fears no one. But no, tell him Paul Grande waits at the lower ford.”

“The traitor!” she blazed out; and, recoiling, hurled the money in my face. It stung strangely.

“You are wrong,” said I, in a low voice. “But as you will. Tell him, if you will, that Paul Grande, the traitor, waits for him at the lower ford. But if you do not tell him, be sure he will not soon 164forgive you. And for the money, he shall keep it for your children—and you will be sorry to have unjustly accused me.”

She laughed with bitter mockery, and turned away.

“But I will tell him; that can do no harm,” she said. “I’ll tell him the traitor who loves him waits at the ford.”

I withdrew into the wood, beyond all reason pained at the injustice.

The unpleasant peasant woman was as good as her word, however; for in little more than the space of an hour I saw Father Fafard approaching. Plainly he had come hot upon the instant.

“My dear, dear boy! Where have you been, and what suffered?” he cried, catching me hard by the two arms, and looking into my eyes.

“It was Gr?l saved me,” said I.

Beyond earshot, deep in the wood, where no wind hindered the noon sun f............