Chapter XV
Ashes as it were Bread
All this had come and gone as it were in a dream, and it seemed to methat I yet panted from my long race. I had seen nothing, meanwhile, ofthe Black Abbé or of his painted pack. Spies, however, he had doubtlessin plenty among those gaping onlookers; and his devilish work yetlighted me effectually on my way across the wet fields. The glow waslike great patches of blood upon the apple-trees, where the masses ofbloom fairly fronted the light. The hedgerow thickets took on a ruddybronze, a sparkle here and there as a wet leaf set the unwonted raysrebounding. The shadows were sharply black, and strangely misleadingwhen they found themselves at odds with those cast by the moon. Thescene, as I hastened over the quiet back lots, was like the unrealphantasmagoria of a dream. I found myself playing with the idea that itall _was_ a dream, from my meeting with old Mother Pêche here—yes, inthis very field—the night before to the present breathless haste andwild surmising. Then the whole bitter reality seemed to topple over, andfall upon me and crush me down. Not only was Yvonne pledged to another,but through grossest over-confidence I had failed her in her need, andworst of all, the thought that made my heart beat shakingly, shebelieved me a traitor. It forced a groan to my lips, but I ran on, andpresently emerged upon the lane a few paces from Father Fafard’s gate.
As I turned in the good priest came and stood in the doorway, peeringdown the lane with anxious eyes. Seeing me, he sprang forward and beganto speak, but I interrupted him, crying:
“Are they here? I must see them.”
“They will not see you, Paul. They would curse you and shut their ears.They believe _you_ did it.”
“But you, father, _you_,” I pleaded, “can undeceive them. Come with me.”And I grasped him vehemently by the arm.
But he shook me off, with a sort of anxious impatience.
“Of course, Paul, I _know_ you did not do it. I _know_ you, as _she_would, too, if she loved you,” he cried, in a voice made high and thinby excitement. “I will tell them you are true. But—where is Yvonne?” Andhe pushed past me to the gate, where he paused irresolutely.
“Don’t tell me she is not with you!” I cried.
“She ran out a minute ago, not telling us what she was going to do,” heanswered.
“But what for? What made her? She must have had some reason! What wasit?” I demanded, becoming cold and stern as I noted how his nerves wereshaken.
He collected himself with a visible effort, and then looked at me with akind of slow pity.
“I had but now come in,” said he, “and thoughtlessly I told Madame aword just caught in the crowd. You know that evil savage, Etienne leBâtard. Or you don’t, I see; but he’s the red right-hand of La Garne,and it was he executed yonder outrage. As he was leading his cut-throatsaway in haste, plainly upon another malignant enterprise, I heard himtell one of my parishioners what he would do. The man is suspected of aleaning to the English; and the savage said to him with significance:
“I go now to Kenneticook, to the yellow-haired English Anderson. Neitherhe nor his house will see another sun.
“I had thought perhaps you were right, Paul, and that Yvonne hadpromised herself to the Englishman more in esteem than love; but shecried out, with a piteous, shaken voice, that he must be warned—thatsome one _must_ go to him and save him. With that she rushed from thehouse, and we have not seen her since. But stay—what have _you_ said ordone to her, Paul? Now that I see her face again, I see remorse in it.What have you done to her?”
I made no answer to this sharp question, it being irrelevant and myhaste urgent. But I demanded:
“Where could she go for help?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, “unless, perhaps, to the landing.”
“The tide is pretty low,” said I, pondering, “but the wind serves wellenough for the Piziquid mouth. Where do you suppose the savages lefttheir canoes?”
“Oh,” said he positively, “well up on the Piziquid shore, without doubt.They came over on the upper trail, and they must be now hurrying backthe same way. They cannot get up the Kenneticook, by that route, till alittle before dawn.”
“I have time, then!” I exclaimed, and rushed away.
“Where are you going? Paul! Paul! What will you do?” he cried after me.
“I will save him!” I shouted as I went. “Come you down to the landing,the Gaspereau wharf, and get Yvonne if she’s there.”
Glancing back, I saw that he followed me.
My heart was surging with gratitude to God for this chance. I vowed tosave Anderson, though it cost me my own life. If Yvonne loved him sheshould then owe her happiness to me. If she did not love him she wouldsee that I was quite other than the traitor she imagined. Strange tosay, I felt no bitterness against her for so misjudging me. It seemed tome that my folly had been so great that I had deserved to be misjudged.But now, here was my opportunity. I swore under my breath that it shouldnot slip from my grasp.
It was a good two-thirds of a mile from the parsonage to the wharf, andI had time to scheme as I ran. I thought at once of Nicole, thesmith,—of his boat, and his brawn, and his loyal fidelity. His boatwould assuredly be at the wharf, but where should I find his brawn andhis fidelity?
At his cottage, beside the forge, I stopped to ask for him.
“At the fire, monsieur,” quavered his old mother, poking a troubled facefrom the window in answer to my thundering on the door. “What would youwith him? Do not lead him into harm, Master Paul!”
But I was off without answering; and the poor, creaking, worried oldvoice followed in my ears:
“He takes no sides. He hurts no one, Master Paul!”
Passing the De Lamourie gate I paused to shout at the height of mylungs:
“Nicole! Nicole Brun! I want you! Nicole! Nicole!”
“Coming, Master Paul!” was the prompt reply, out of the heart of thecrowd; and in a moment the active, thick-set form appeared, bareheadedas usual, for I had never known Nicole to cover his black shock with capor hat.
I was leaning on the fence to get my breath.
“You were there, Nicole, when I was looking for a friend?” said I, eyinghim with sharp question and reproach as he came up.
“You did not seem to need any one just then, Master Paul; leastwise, noone that was thereabouts,” he answered, with a sheepish mixture ofbantering and apology.
I ignored both. I knew him to be true.
“Will you come with me, right now, Nicole Brun?” I asked, starting offagain toward the river.
“You know I will, Master Paul,” said he, close at my side. “But where?What are we up to?”
“The boat!” said I. “The wind serves. I’m going to the Kenneticook towarn Anderson that the Black Abbé is to cut his throat this night!”
I turned and looked him in the eyes as I spoke.
His long, determined upper lip drew down at my words, but his littlegrey eyes flashed upon mine a half-resigned, half-humorous acquiescence.
“It’s risky, Master Paul. And no good, like as not,” he answered. “We’llbe just about in time to get our own throats slit, I’m thinking,—to saynothing of the hair,” he added, rubbing his crown with ruefulapprehension.
“Let me have your boat, and I go alone,” said I curtly. But I was sureof him nevertheless.
“I’m with you, sure, Master Paul, if you _will_ go,” he rejoined. “Andmaybe it’s worth while to disturb his reverence’s plans, if it _be_ onlyan Englishman that we’re taking so much trouble about.”
“We must and shall save him, Nicole,” I said, as deliberately as mypanting breath would permit, “or I will die in the trying. He isbetrothed to Mademoiselle de Lamourie, you know.”
“_I_ should say, rather, let him die for her, that a better man may livefor her,” he retorted shrewdly. “But as you will, Master Paul, ofcourse!”
In the privacy of my own heart I thought extremely well of Nicole’sdiscrimination; but I said nothing
, for by this we were come to thewharf; and I saw—Yvonne!