Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent

shuttle,

While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,

Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together.

As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals

ceases,

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Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest

at the altar,

So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,

Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.

Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the

blacksmith,

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And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with

him.

"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold,

Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle

Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without

thee;

Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of

tobacco;

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Never so much thyself art thou as when, through the

curling

Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial

face gleams

Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes."

Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,

Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fire

66

side:

230

Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy

ballad!

Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filledwith

Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe."

Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline

brought him,

235

And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly

continued:

"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors

Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.

What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded

On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's

mandate

240

Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean

time

Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." Then made answer the farmer:-"Perhaps some friend

lier purpose

Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in

England

By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 245 And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children."

"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said warmly the blacksmith,

Shaking his head as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:-

"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port

Royal.

Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its out

skirts,

250

Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all

kinds;

Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower."

Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:

"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our

cornfields,

Safer within these peaceful dikes besieged by the ocean,

255

Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of

sorrow

Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.

Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the

village

260

Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the

glebe round about them,

Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a

twelvemonth.

René Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and ink

horn.

Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?"

As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her

lover's,

265

Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had

spoken,

And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.

III.

Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the

ocean,

Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary

public;

Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize,

hung

270

Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows

Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred

Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.

Four long years in the times of the war had he languished

a captive,

275

Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the

English.

Now, though warrior grown, without all guile or suspicion,

Ripe in wisdom was he, and patient, and simple, and childlike.

He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children; For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, 280 And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened

Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;

And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a

nutshell,

285

And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,

With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the black

smith,

Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,

"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk of the village,

290

And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand."

Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary pub

lic,

"Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the

wiser;

And what their errand may be I know no better than others.

Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 295 Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?"