It was nightfall when the sloop’s trip came to an end. Cramped and stiff, the prisoners were made to march ashore, to where was located an old convent, now fallen mostly to decay. Some soldiers were quartered here, and the prisoners were turned over to a guard and promptly put into what had once been the cell of a monk.
“Worse and worse,” said Henry. “What do you think will happen next?”
Again Silvers shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know, lad, unless they march us out to be shot.”
“Would they do that? They did not catch us in French territory.”
“As we are in their power they can do with us as they please.”
Early in the morning the pair were aroused by the roll of a drum. Some of the soldiers were getting ready to march away, and the prisoners were told that they were to march with them.
“To where?” asked Henry.
“To Montreal, and perhaps to Quebec,” said the officer addressed, who could speak excellent English. Henry wanted to ask more questions, but the officer had no time to listen to him.
By eight o’clock the soldiers were on the march, with the two prisoners in their midst. The way was along the river trail, past many pretty farms and handsome French estates, many of which, however, were now abandoned. At one point in the road they came upon several ladies on horseback, who stared in wonder at the prisoners.