“Ah, I remember now,” exclaimed Merton’s comrade suddenly. “I could not recollect where I had seen the little maid before, but I mind me now that it was at the great house over yonder where she and an old woman talked together in French and told me that they were both Acadians. Of course she understood!”
The brows of the young officer were knit in troubled perplexity.
“Is it true that you are French?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Clotilde, who saw no use in further attempt at concealment; “yes, I am an Acadian and understand the French tongue as readily as English.”
“That is a misfortune for both of us,” he returned gravely, “for how, then, if you know our plan and our errand, can I leave you to go free? I was a fool to speak so openly, but you are the first I have yet seen in the colonies whose education included French. Tell, me, will you, as a prisoner of war, give me your parole not to act against us, not to warn the people of our being here? I am certain that I can trust you if you will but give me your word.”
Clotilde regarded him with unmelting hostility.
“I will give you no such promise,” she said steadily, “and I will also do my utmost to aid my cause against yours.”
Her tone was so final that there seemed little use in further argument.
“Very well,” said the Captain, “then we must leave you here, a prisoner. You have the key to that further door, Merton? Give it to me, and go out to tell the men to march on.”
The French pedlar slipped away into the darkness, the two soldiers went out and closed the door, but the Captain did not follow immediately. He was bringing fresh wood for the fire from the cupboard in the corner and was measuring the candles on the mantel shelf to see how long they had to burn. It was plain that he had no liking for his duty as jailer and was anxious that his prisoner should not suffer.