d you best," she said. "But he was a great lord. The women
in barracks are so hateful, and a common soldier is naught."

"You would be the lady of a seignior," hissed Klussman.

"Thou knowest I was fit for that," retorted Marguerite with spirit.

"I know thou wert. It is marrying me that has been thy ruin." He groaned
with his head hanging.

"We are not ruined yet," she said, "if you care for me."

"That was a stranger child?" he repeated.

"All the train knew it to be a motherless child. He had no right to
thrust it on me."

"I demand no testimony of D'Aulnay's followers," said Klussman roughly.

He let her go from his arms, and stepped to the battlements. His gaze
moved over the square of the fortress, and eastward to that blur of
whiteness which hinted the enemy's tents, the hint being verified by a
light or two.

"I have a word to tell you," said Marguerite, leaning beside her
husband.

"I have this to tell thee," said the Swiss. "We must leave Acadia." His
arm again fondled her, and he comforted his sore spirit with an
instant's thought of home and peace somewhere.

"Yes. We can go to Penobscot," she said.

"Penobscot?" he repeated with suspicion.

"The king will give you a grant of Penobscot."

"The king will give it to--me?"

"Yes. And it is a great seigniory."

"How do you know the king will do that?"

"He told me to tell you; he promised it."

"The king? You never saw the king."

"No."

"D'Aulnay?"

"Yes."

"I would I had him by the throat!" burst out Klussman. Marguerite leaned
her cheek on the stone and sighed. The bay seemed full of salty spice.
It was a night in which the human soul must beat against casements to
break free and roam the blessed dark. All of spring was in the air.
Directly overhead stood the north star, with slow constellations
wheeling in review before him.

"So D'Aulnay sent you to spy on my lord, as my lord believed?"

"You shall not call me a spy. I came to my husband. I hate him," she
added in a resentful burst. "He made me walk the marshes, miles and
miles alone, carrying that child."

"Why the child?"

"Because the people from St. John would be sure to pity it."

"And what word did he send you to tell me?" demanded Klussman. "Give me
that word."

Marguerite waited with her face downcast.

"It was kind of him to think of me," said the Swiss; "and to send you
with the message!"

She felt mocked, and drooped against the wall. And in the midst of h