He
thought how he would snap his fingers at Le Loutre and his Micmacs.
But he was beginning to exult too soon.
When Pierre told his story, and the family realized that their kindly
home was doomed, the little dark kitchen, with its wooden ceiling, was
filled with lamentations. Such of the children as were big enough to
understand the calamity wept aloud, and the littler ones cried from
sympathy. Pierre's father for a moment appeared bowed down beneath
the stroke, but the mother, a stout, dark, gentle-faced woman, suddenly
stopped her sobs and cried out in a shrill voice, with her queer Breton
accent:
"Antoine, Antoine, we will defy the wicked, cruel abbe, and pray the
English to protect us from him. Did not Father Xavier, just before he
was sent away, tell us that the English were just, and that it was our
duty to be faithful to them? How can we go out into this rough spring
weather with no longer a roof to cover us?"
This appeal roused the Acadian. His shrewd sense and knowledge of those
with whom he had to deal came at once to his aid.
"Nay, nay, mother!" said he, rising and passing his gnarled hand over
his forehead, "it is even as Pierre has said. We must be the first
to do the bidding of the abbe, and must seem to do it of our own accord.
It will be hours yet ere the English be among us, and long ere Le Loutre
will have had time to work his will upon those who refuse to do his
bidding. Do thou get the stuff together. This night we must sleep
on the shore of the stream and find us a new home at Beausejour.
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