ompletely at a loss to know what you mean," I said, boldly,
but my heart sank at his words.

"Simply this, madame," and he handed me an open letter.

"MONSIEUR" [I read],--"If you have any regard for me, keep the
lady claiming to be my wife at such a distance that I may never
set eyes on her again. Should she be in want, I will gladly
reimburse you for any expenditure you may make on her account.

"LE CHEVR DE MAXWELL."

It was almost like a blow, and for a moment I stood numb and
bewildered; but the realisation of my danger, from the man who
stood there smiling at my degradation, was a spur to me, and I
neither fainted nor cried aloud.

"A pitiable situation, truly! Believe me, my dear madame, my heart
bleeds for you."

"You are a liar, as well as a coward, monsieur. I know not what
you have said or written to M. de Maxwell, but neither he nor any
man can ever cast me off. I am not his wife!"

"Thank God for that!" he cried, in so different a voice that I
looked at him in surprise. "Thank God for that! Marguerite, I love
you with my whole heart, and body, and life. I know I am nothing
but a rough coureur de bois, in spite of my birth. I have been
cruel to you. I have tortured you. Forgive me, forgive me! I knew
of no other way to woo you. Teach me to be gentle, and I will be
gentle for your sake. But, God in heaven! do not ask me to give
you up! I cannot live without you. I have lost my soul to you. I
have lost everything, for I should not be beside you even now!"

"No, you should not!" rang out a clear voice, and le pere Jean
stepped into the path before us. "Man never spake truer words,
Sarennes. I have followed you night and day to bring you back to
your duty. You are waited for every hour at Louisbourg, for the
Indians will not move without you."

He spake rapidly, like one accustomed to command, and at the same
time held forth his hand to me, as one might to a child, and I
seized it in both mine, and stepped close to his side.

At the first sound of the priest's voice M. de Sarennes's whole
aspect changed; his face took on a hard, obstinate look, and he
scowled as if he would have struck the man before him, but he
answered him not a word.

"Go!" again commanded the priest. "Go back to Louisbourg! You need
no word of mine to urge you; if you do, I will tell you the Cross
of St. Louis awaits you there."

"What care I for your Cross of St. Louis? I am not a French popinjay
to be dazzle