# Myths and Legends Beyond Our Borders/The Devil's Half-Acre

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THE DEVIL'S HALF-ACRE
NORTHEAST from the reservation given to Chief Brant for his services to the English troops, and for some time known as Wellington Square, was a clearing of no large area, with a log cabin on it that had been built and occupied by a man and a woman, both of gentle manner, well appearing, and quite alone. Few people ventured into that region eighty years ago, except the trappers, although a trail led near the clearing from the head of Lake Ontario to an inland trading-post. On a June day the woman sat sewing in the door, but every now and then she dropped her work, as if to listen. She was of French type, dark, with a rich, out-door complexion, soft eyes, and a winning smile, for as she looked down the path she did smile, in expectancy. At some distance could be heard the crack of rifles: the Indian hunters were about; but to these sounds she paid no heed. She sang a gay little French song softly to herself and smiled again. Suddenly a crash sounded in the thicket, and a hunted doe fled by like an arrow. At the same moment a loud report came from among the trees. The deer sped on. The woman half arose, toppled, fell forward on the step, and a stain of red trickled away toward the earth. Hurried steps sounded among the shrubbery, following the direction taken by the doe, and the sun moved toward its setting: very slowly it went down that day.
​In the twilight a man's voice called across the field, "Lois!" then, in a higher key, "Lois!" There was no answer. The man advanced eagerly. For an instant he stopped. He had seen the shape on the step, and a shudder went through him. His gun dropped from his hand, his game-bag slipped from his shoulder. With a toss of his head he flung off the spell of a fear that was closing upon him and ran to Lois, so still, so cold, with face down upon her arm as if she had fallen into a tired sleep. "Lois!" he cried, "what is it? You are hurt! Ah, my love, ma chérie, open your eyes. See, it is Paul come to you. Will you not speak to me?" He begged, he wept, he embraced her yielding form. At last, a little sigh. With almost a laugh of joy he caught her up, ran into the house with her, and placed her on the bed. He bathed her face, he warmed her with fur wraps, he tried to force hot drink into her mouth, but without avail: a slow, slight breathing was all that betokened life.
Just at dawn she awoke and gazed into his face. He, who had tried to look comfort into the eyes of others in like case, knew the meaning of that gaze, and his head fell forward upon her hand, while he was shaken with sobs. "It is the punishment, Paul," she said. "We have sinned, almost beyond forgiveness,—you against the Church, breaking your priestly vow, I against my husband. Pray—pray for me—and for you———"
​And Paul Daudet, runaway priest, prayed as he had not prayed since he had striven against temp-tation. As the sun came up he closed the eyes of Lois and went out. It was a different world from yesterday's. His Eden was become a hell. A grave would soon hold all his happiness, but he would not go away. He, who had deceived the most trusting, generous patron of his Church, how could he go back? Unaided he made the coffin and dug the grave, and at its edge he said the funeral service. The time was dull and the world was cold after that, yet he lived on, alone, growing old fest, so rude, so gruff, that the Indians feared him. How he subsisted, when, where, and how he died, none can say, but in time he disappeared, and they called his little garden "the Devil's half-acre."