“These ten years,” I exclaimed to myself angrily (for I love not to havea dream rudely broken), “has Grûl been prophesying woe; and I see notthat aught comes of it save greater strength to his lungs.”
I turned my back upon the valley and watched the singular figure thatdrew near. It was a shrewd and mysterious madman whom all Acadie hadknown for the past ten years as “Grûl.” Whether that was his real nameor a pseudonym of his own adoption no one knew. Whence he had come noone knew. Wherefore he stayed in Acadie, and so faithfully prophesiedevil to our fair land, no one knew. The reason of his madness—and themethod which sometimes seemed to lurk beneath it—no one couldconfidently guess. At least, such ignorance in regard to this fantasticfool seemed general throughout the country. But there lay here and therea suspicion that the Black Abbé, the indomitable La Garne, Bigot’s tooland the people’s dread, knew more of Grûl’s madness than other folkmight dream. It was whispered that La Garne, who seemingly feared no manelse, feared Grûl. It was certain that whenever any scheme of the BlackAbbé’s came to naught Grûl’s hand would appear somewhere in the wreck ofit.
Now, as he came down from the maple grove, he looked and was dressedjust as I had seen him years before. The vicissitudes of time and of theweather seemed to have as little effect upon the staring black andyellow of his woollen cloak as upon his iron frame, his piercinglight-blue eyes, the snowy tangle of his hair and beard. Only hispointed cap betrayed that its wearer dwelt not altogether beyond thepale of mutability. Its adornments seemed to recognize the seasons. Ihad seen it stuck with cornflowers in the summer, with golden-rod andasters in the autumn, with feathers and strange wisps of straw inwinter; and now it bore a spray of apple-blossom, with some dandelions,those northern sun-worshippers, whose closing petals now declared thateven in death they took note of the passing of their lord.
In his hand Grûl carried the same quaint wand of white wood, with itsgrotesque carven head dyed scarlet, which had caught my eye with anuneasy fascination the first time I met its possessor. That littlestick, which Grûl wielded with authority as if it were a sceptre, stillcaused me some superstitious qualms. I remembered how at my first sightof it I had looked to see a living spark leap from that scarlet head.
“It has been a long time coming,” said I, as Grûl paused before me,searching my face curiously with his gleaming eyes. “And meanwhile Ihave come. I think, monsieur, I should esteem a welcome somewhat morecordial than your words of dolorous omen.”
Whether he were displeased or not at my forwardness in addressing him Icannot tell. He was without doubt accustomed to choose his own time forspeech. His eyes danced with a shifting, sharp light, and afterthrusting his little wand at me till, in spite of myself, I felt theeasy smile upon my lips grow something mechanical, he said withwithering slowness:
“To the boy and the fool how small a handful of years may seem alifetime! You think it is long coming? It is even now come. The shadowof the smoke of her burning even now lies upon Acadie. The ships of herexile are near.”
He stopped; and I had no word of mocking wherewith to answer him. Thenhis eyes and his voice softened a little, and he continued:
“And _you_ have come back—poor boy, poor fool!—with joy in your heart;and your joy even now is crumbling to ashes in your mouth.”
He turned away, leaving me still speechless; but in an instant he wasback and his wand thrust at me with a suddenness that made me recoil inchildish apprehension. In a voice indescribably dry and biting he criedswiftly:
“But look you, boy. Whether she be yours or another’s, there is an evilhand uplifted against her this night. See you to it!”
“What do you mean?” I cried, my heart sinking with a sudden fear. “Nay,you _shall_ tell me!” I went on fiercely, making as if to restrain himby force as he turned away. But he bent upon me one look of such scornthat I felt at once convicted of folly; and striding off, with somethingof a dignity in his carriage which all his grotesquerie of garb couldnot conceal, he left me to chew upon his words. As for the warning, thatwas surely plain enough. I was to go to Yvonne, and be by her in case ofany need. The business thus laid upon me was altogether to my liking.But that pitying word—of joy that should turn to ashes in my mouth! Itfilled me with black foreboding. As I stepped down briskly toward GrandPré my joy was already dead, withered at a madman’s whisper. And thatgreat-growing cloud from over Blomidon had swallowed up all the villagein a chill shadow.