“He shall go back to France with his wife.  There is no place in Canada for heretics.”

Du Lhut burst out laughing.  “By Saint Anne, father,” said he, “if you could take us all back to France at present we should be very much your debtors.”

“And you will remember,” said De la Noue sternly, “that you are under my roof and that you are speaking of my guest.”

But the friar was not to be abashed by the frown of the old nobleman.

“Look at this,” said he, whipping a paper out of his bosom.  “It is signed by the governor, and calls upon you, under pain of the king’s displeasure, to return this man to Quebec.  Ah, monsieur, when you left me upon the island that morning you little thought that I would return to Quebec for this, and then hunt you down so many hundreds of miles of river.  But I have you now, and I shall never leave you until I see you on board the ship which will carry you and your wife back to France.”

For all the bitter vindictiveness which gleamed in the monk’s eyes, De Catinat could not but admire the energy and tenacity of the man.

“It seems to me, father, that you would have shone more as a soldier than as a follower of Christ,” said he; “but, since you have followed us here, and since there is no getting away, we may settle this question at some later time.”

But the two Americans were less inclined to take so peaceful a view.  Ephraim Savage’s beard bristled with anger, and he whispered something into Amos Green’s ear.

“The captain and I could easily get rid of him,” said the young woodsman, drawing De Catinat aside.  “If he will cross our path he must pay for it.”

“No, no, not for the world, Amos!  Let him alone.  He does what he thinks to be his duty, though his faith is stronger than his charity, I think.  But here comes the rain, and surely it is dark enough now for the boats.”

A great brown cloud had overspread the heavens, and the night had fallen so rapidly that they could hardly see the gleam of the river in front of them.  The savages in the woods and behind the captured stockade were quiet, save for an occasional shot, but the yells and whoops from the cottages of the censitaires showed that they were being plundered by their captors.  Suddenly a dull red glow began to show above one of the roofs.

“They have set it on fire,” cried Du Lhut.  “The canoes must go at once, for the river will soon be as light as day.  In!  In!  There is not an instant to lose!”

There was no time for leave-taking.  One impassioned kiss and Adele was torn away and thrust into the smallest canoe, which she shared with Onega, two children, and an unmarried girl.  The others rushed into their places, and in a few moments they had pushed off, and had vanished into the drift and the darkness.  The great cloud had broken and the rain pattered heavily upon the roof, and splashed upon their faces as they strained their eyes after the vanishing boats.