ove can
do anything; it can do everything. We'll be married to-morrow."

"That's rather difficult," he answered. "You see, you're a Catholic, and
I'm a Protestant, and they wouldn't marry us here, I'm afraid; at least
not at once, perhaps not at all. You see, I--I've only one lung."

He had never spoken so frankly of his illness before. "Well, we can
go over the border into the English province--into Upper Canada," she
answered. "Don't you see? It's only a few miles' drive to a village. I
can go over one day, get the licence; then, a couple of days after, we
can go over together and be married. And then, then--"

He smiled. "Well, then it won't make much difference, will it? We'll
have to fit in one way or another, eh?"

"We could be married afterwards by the Cure, if everybody made a fuss.
The bishop would give us a dispensation. It's a great sin to marry a
heretic, but--"

"But love--eh, ma cigale!" Then he took her eagerly, tenderly into his
arms; and probably he had then the best moment in his life.

Sophie Farcinelle saw them driving back together. She was sitting at
early supper with Magon, when, raising her head at the sound of wheels,
she saw Christine laughing and Ferrol leaning affectionately towards
her. Ferrol had forgotten herself and the incident of the afternoon.
It meant nothing to him. With her, however, it was vital: it marked a
change in her life. Her face flushed, her hands trembled, and she arose
hurriedly and went to get something from the kitchen, that Magon might
not see her face.

CHAPTER XII

Twenty men had suddenly disappeared from Bonaventure on the day that
Ferrol visited Sophie Farcinelle, and it was only the next morning that
the cause of their disappearance was generally known.

There had been many rumours abroad that a detachment of men from the
parish were to join Papineau. The Rebellion was to be publicly declared
on a certain date near at hand, but nothing definite was known; and
because the Cure condemned any revolt against British rule, in spite of
the evils the province suffered from bad government, every recruit who
joined Nic Lavilette's standard was sworn to secrecy. Louis Lavilette
and his wife knew nothing of their son's complicity in the rumoured
revolt--one's own people are generally the last to learn of one's
misdeeds. Madame would have been sorely frightened and chagrined if
she had known the truth, for she was partly English. Besides, if the
Rebellion did