Forge In The Forest Part 8

"To be sure, my Tamin, that is all of it," added Marc.

"Who has ever heard that the Black Abbe was a prophet?

Faith, 'tis as Father says, a cunning and a devilish revenge. But you can balk it finely by paying no heed to it."

Tamin's face had brightened mightily, but he still looked serious.

"Do you think so?" he exclaimed with eagerness.

"'Tis as you say indeed, -- the Black Abbe is no prophet.

Had it been Grul, now, that said it, there were something to lie awake for, eh?"

"Yes, indeed, if Grul had said it," muttered Marc, contemplating him strangely.

But for me, I was something impatient now to be asleep.

"Think no more of it, my friend," said I, and dismissed him. Yet sleepy as I was, I thought of it, and even I must have begun to dream of it. The white sheet of moonlight that lay across my couch became a drift of snow with blood upon it, and the patterned shadow upon the wall an apparition leaning over, -- when out of an immense distance, as it were, I heard Marc's voice.

"Father," he cried softly, "are you awake?"

"Yes, dear lad," said I. "What is it?"

"I have been wondering," said he, "why the Black Abbe looked at you, not me, in his going. He had such a countenance as warns me that he purposes some cunning stroke. But I fear his enmity has turned from me to you."

"Well, lad, it was surely I that balked him. What would you have?" I asked.

"Oh," said he, heavily, "that I should have turned that bloodhound onto your trail!"

"Marc, if it will comfort you to know it, carry this in your memory," said I, with a cheerful lightness, like froth upon the strong emotion that flooded my heart.

"When the Black Abbe strikes at me, it will be through you. He knows where I am like to prove most vulnerable!"

"'Tis all right, then, so as we sink or swim together, Father," said Marc, quietly.

"That's the way of it now, dear lad! Sweet sleep to you, and dreams of red hair!" said I. And I turned my face drowsily to the wall.

Chapter IX.

The Abbe Strikes Again.

THE few days of our stay at Chignecto were gay and busy ones; and all through them hummed the wind steadily across the pale green marshes, and buffeted the golden-rod on our high shoulder of upland. De Ramezay gratified me by making much of Marc. The three of us rode daily abroad among the surrounding settlements.

And I spent many hours planning with de Ramezay a fort which should be built on the site of this camp, in case the coming campaign should fail to drive the English out of Acadie. De Ramezay, as was ever his wont, was full of confidence in the event. But of the sorry doings at Quebec, of the plundering hands upon the public purse, of the shamelessness in high places, he hinted to me so broadly that I began to see much ground for Marc's misgivings. And my heart cried out for my fair country of New France.

On the fifth day of our stay, -- it was a Wednesday, and very early in the morning, -- the good Beaudry with his good boat came for us. The tide serving at about two hours after sunrise, we set out then for Grand Pre, well content with the jade Fortune whose whims had so far favoured us. De Ramezay and his officers were at the wharf-end to bid us G.o.d-speed; and as I muse upon it now they may have thought curiously of it to see the loving fashion in which both Marc and I made a point to embrace our faithful Tamin. But that is neither here nor there, so long as we let him plainly understand how our hearts were towards him.

The voyage home was uneventful, save that we met contrary winds, whereby it fell that not until evening of the second day did we come into the Gaspereau mouth and mark the maids of Grand Pre carrying water from the village well.

The good Beaudry we paid to his satisfaction, and left to find lodging in one of the small houses by the water side; while Marc and I took our way up the long street with its white houses standing amid their apple trees.

Having gone perhaps four or five furlongs, returning many a respectful salutation from the doorways as we pa.s.sed, we then turned up the hill by a little lane which was bordered stiffly with the poplar trees of Lombardy, and in short s.p.a.ce we came to a pleasant cottage in a garden, under shadow of the tall white church which stood sentinel over the Grand Pre roofs.

The cottage had some apple trees behind it, and many late roses blooming in the garden. It was the home of the good Cure, Father Fafard, most faithful and most gentle of priests.

With Father Fafard we lodged that night, and for some days thereafter. The Cure's round face grew unwontedly stern and anxious as we told him our adventures, and rehea.r.s.ed the doings of the Black Abbe. He got up from time to time and paced the room, muttering once -- "Alas that such a man should discredit our holy office!

What wrath may he not bring down upon this land!" -- and more to a like purport.

My own house in Grand Pre, where Marc had inhabited of late, and where I was wont to pay my flitting visits, I judged well to put off my hands for the present, foreseeing that troublous times were nigh. I transferred it in Father Fafard's presence to a trusty villager by name Marquette, whom I could count upon to transfer it back to me as soon as the skies should clear again. I knew that if, by any fortune of war, English troops should come to be quartered in Grand Pre, they would be careful for the property of the villagers; but the house and goods of an enemy under arms, such would belike fare ill. I collected, also, certain moneys due me in the village, for I knew that the people were prosperous, and I did not know how long their prosperity might continue. This done, Marc and I set out for my own estate beside the yellow Canard.

There I had rents to gather in, but no house to put off my hands. At the time when Acadie was ceded to England, a generation back, the house of the de Mers had been handed over to one of the most prosperous of our habitants, and with that same family it had ever since remained, yielding indeed a preposterously scant rental, but untroubled by the patient conqueror.

My immediate destination was the Forge, where I expected to find Babin awaiting me with news and messages. At the Forge, too, I would receive payment from my tenants, and settle certain points which, as I had heard, were at dispute amongst them.

As we drew near the Forge, through the pleasant autumn woods, it wanted about an hour of noon. I heard, far off, the m.u.f.fled thunder of a c.o.c.k-partridge drumming.

But there was no sound of hammer on clanging anvil, no smoke rising from the wide Forge chimney; and when we entered, the ashes were dead cold. It was plain there had been no fire in the forge that day.

"Where can Babin be?" I muttered in vexation. "If he got my message, there can be no excuse for his absence."

"I'll wager, Father," said Marc, "that if he is not off on some errand of yours, then he is sick abed, or dead.

Nought besides would keep Babin when you called him."

I went to a corner and pulled a square of bark from a seemingly hollow log up under the rafters. In the secret niche thus revealed was a sc.r.a.p of birch bark scrawled with some rude characters of Babin's, whence I learned that my trusty smith was sick of a sharp inflammation. I pa.s.sed the sc.r.a.p over to Marc, and felt again in the hollow.

"What, in the name of all the saints, is this?" I exclaimed, drawing out a short piece of peeled stick.

A portion of the stick was cut down to a flat surface, and on this was drawn with charcoal a straight line, having another straight line perpendicular to it, and bisecting it. At the top of the perpendicular was a figure of the sun, thus:-

[drawing]

"It's a message from Grul," said Marc, the instant that his eyes fell upon it.

"H'm; and how do you know that?" said I, turning it over curiously in my fingers.

"Well," replied Marc, "the peeled stick is Grul's sign manual. What does he say?"

"He seems to say that he is going to build a windmill,"

said I, with great seriousness; "but doubtless you will give this hieroglyphic quite a different interpretation."

Marc laughed, -- yes, laughed audibly. And it is possible that his Pen.o.bscot grandmother turned in her grave. It was good to know that the lad _could_ laugh, which I had begun to doubt; but it was puzzling to me to hear him laugh at the mere absurdity which I had just uttered, when my most polished witticisms, of which I had shot off many of late at Chignecto, and in conversation with good Father Fafard, had never availed to bring more than a phantom smile to his lips.

However, I made no comment, but handed him "Grul's sign manual," as he chose to call it.

"Why, Father," said he, "you understand it well enough, I know. This is plainly the sun at high noon. At high noon, therefore, we may surely expect to see Grul. He has been here but a short time back; for see, the wood is not yet dry."

"Sapristi!" said I, "do you call that the sun, lad?

It is very much like a windmill."

How Marc might have retorted upon me, I know not; for at the moment, though it yet wanted much of noon, the fantastic figure of the madman -- if he were a madman -- sped into the Forge. He stopped abruptly before us and scrutinized us for some few seconds in utter silence, his eyes glittering and piercing like sword points. His long white hair and beard were disordered with haste, the flowers and feathers in his pointed cap were for the most part broken, even as when we had last seen him, and his gaudy mantle was somewhat befouled with river mud. Yet such power was there in his look and in his gesture, that when he stretched out his little white staff toward me and said "Come," I had much ado to keep from obeying him without question.

Yet this I would not permit myself, as was natural.

"Whither?" I questioned. "And for what purpose?"

By this time he was out at the door, but he stopped.

Giving me a glance of scorn he turned to Marc, and stretched out his staff.

"Come," he said. And in a breath he was gone, springing with incredible swiftness and smoothness through the underbrush.

"We must follow, Father!" cried Marc; and in the same instant was away.