The poor curé looked from one to the other, as if doubting whether they were not playing a cruel practical joke on him. The faces of all the officers had been blackened in streaks with gunpowder and water, in a fashion which many of the grimly-humorous backwoodsmen had taken from the Indian war-paint. In dress they were no way superior to their men, and the wearing of swords was all that distinguished them. Such a looking set of ruffians might have frightened any one, much more the poor Frenchmen, whose minds had been industriously filled with horrible stories about the “rebels” by Hamilton’s and Rocheblave’s emissaries.
Clark, whose pity was excited by the evident terror of these feeble old men, came forward kindly enough, and said:
“I am Colonel Clark, of Kentucky, gentlemen, commander of this force. What is your business? Fear nothing. We will not kill you. Speak freely.”
Father Gibault, who seemed to be spokesman, was so much affected by the kind tone, that he faltered:
“God bless you, monsieur! God bless you! You are very kind, and we are very old.”
Clark waved his hand impatiently.
“Well, well, gentlemen, what is your business? Speak quickly, for I am busy.”
“Monsieur,” said the priest, earnestly, “we are well aware that your people do not belong to our church, and that you hold its doctrines in derision; but, monsieur, we beg leave to assure you that we are very quiet, harmless people. We know that the fortune of war has thrown us into your hands, and that we must expect to be separated from our happy homes, perhaps never to meet again. But, oh, monsieur, we beg, in the name of humanity, that you will allow us to meet once more, for the last time in our church, to hear one last mass, and to take leave of each other.”
And the five old men, with one accord, broke out weeping in the most piteous manner, crying:
“Oh, monsieur, for the love of God!” “Pity us!” “Indeed we did not know who you were.” “The commandant told us you were all savages.” “But we know better now.”