t who had so deceived them.

[Illustration: RUINS OF CHATEAU BIGOT]

The interesting legend of _Le Chien d'Or_ has its origin in the
mercenary practices of this last Intendant of Quebec. Among the
merchants of the city was one Nicholas Jaquin, _dit_ Philibert, whose
warehouse stood at the top of Mountain Hill, on the site of the
present Post-Office. Philibert was one of the _honnetes gens_, and he
devoted his wealth and energy to a commercial battle with _La
Friponne_, determined to supply the people with food at low prices.
The enmity between Philibert and the Intendant was common talk, and
over his doorway the merchant had hung, beneath the figure of a dog in
bas-relief, the following whimsical quatrain:--

[Illustration: LE CHIEN D'OR]

"Je suis un chien qui ronge l'os,
En le rongeant je prends mon repos;
Un jour viendra, qui n'est pas venu,
Que je mordrai qui m'aura mordu."

The bitter conflict continued until Philibert was murdered in the
street. The escape of the assassin was well contrived; but there was
no avoiding the vengeance of Philibert's son, who, after years of
searching, struck down his father's slayer in far-off Pondicherry.

* * * * *

Meanwhile the walls and bastions of Louisbourg were rising stronger
than ever upon their old foundations, and the French Acadians, relying
upon the Cape Breton stronghold and the nearer fortress of Beausejour,
grew more and more restless beneath the English yoke. By founding
Halifax in 1749, England had taken faster hold upon the peninsula, and
through every possible means she had endeavoured to secure the true
allegiance of her Acadian subjects. In spite of all these efforts,
however, Acadia was sown with treason, and when at last disloyalty
became intolerable and dangerous, the innocent as well as the guilty
must reap the harvest of tears and bitterness. There could only be one
end to it all; and however hard the fate, the land of Acadia now
ceased to be the home of its makers, who had been goaded and inveigled
into covert rebellion and treason.

"This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that
beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of
the huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Wa