"She took off her petite bonnet, and sat down by the fire, holding out her hands. Then the good man from the house with trees before it, very tall, he speak to madame so kind, and say that mademoiselle is very right not to run great way off like guilty people; that the great God was very strong to take care of her, and she must not have too much fear, but keep brave heart. Then madame began to cry; oh, how she cry, with great sobs, like the wind in trees that give all their leaves away to winter, she say 'God help me, for I am a coward;' and then she goes to the stairs and opens the door, and says to the men, 'Come down, my daughter has not run away, she is here.'"
"Then mademoiselle stood up and say—ah, so sweet: 'Yes, I am here, do with me as you please;' and a smile was on her mouth like the sun on the snow, and——"
"Don't, I tell you don't," cried Tom, stamping furiously. "It's enough to bust a feller's heart, if his jacket was buttoned ever so tight. She's a brave gal. You, and I, and Jube, may just hang up our fiddles, for the law's got her now, tight enough. That old Thrasher has done the business for her this time, anyhow. Gracious, what's that? Look a there—didn't I tell you?"
A wagon was coming up the road, slowly ploughing its way through the muddy snow: a single-seated wagon, with a rush-bottomed chair standing in front, upon which a man sat conspicuously, driving the horse. In the seat behind sat another man, with his arm thrown around a slender female, who shrunk away from his embrace, and cast wild glances toward the group of school children, that gathered in a crowd by the side of the road.
"Ah, me, it is her," said Paul, turning his eyes upon the wagon, and clasping his hands.
"Yes," said Tom, and the great tears leaped down his cheeks. "It's no mistake, them men are the keepers, and that is her. They're taking her up to the Squire's. It's all day with us, Paul; she'll never sleep in that brown house agin. Don't shake so, Paul; don't cry like a baby; I tell you it's enough to make a feller ashamed of your company!"
That moment the wagon came opposite the place where the two boys were standing: the prisoner saw them, and leaning forward tried to smile. Tom's bosom heaved, every feature in his face quivered, and then his feelings broke forth in a burst of tears that shook him from head to foot.
"Cry, Paul; cry, if you want to! I wont say a word agin it," he sobbed; "if you and I was giants, fifty feet tall, we needn't be ashamed of boo-hooing right out at a sight like that. Poor gal, poor gal, she looks like a blessed lamb between two butchers. Never mind, Paul, cry if you can't help it. I'll stand between you and the boys—they know me—by jingo, wasn't that one of 'em laughing? I'll maul him, see if I don't."
"Ah, no," said Paul, whose grief had been far less turbulent than that of his friend, "they not understand it as we do. She would not like you to fight, or think of any thing wrong. Let us be good, very much, and perhaps God will take care of her as He took care of Jube and me, when there was nothing but sky and water, very deep, all around us."
"Oh, why didn't she cut when we got her off!" cried Tom, bursting into a fresh passion of sobs. "It's like climbing a high tree after a young bird, and then seeing it flip out of your hand just as you touch ground. What's the use of being a gineral if your sojers wont work! That old Thrasher has undid us, Paul."