As if by one consent, the rough backwoodsmen jumped up and stamped away to the windows, while muttered exclamations of sympathy were heard.
Clark waved his hand for silence, for he had his face under more control than his subordinates, though he too was much affected by the spectacle of old men in tears.
Then he said, in a careless tone:
“I have nothing to say against your church, gentlemen. That is a matter we Americans leave every man to settle with his God. If your people wish to assemble in the church, they can do so; but at the same time, if they do, they must not venture out of town. I will withdraw the troops to let you assemble. Is that all?”
“Oh, thanks, monsieur, thanks!” cried father Gibault, in a tone of great relief. “But, oh, monsieur, if you would only listen to us for a little while, I feel confident that we could convince you that our intentions have always been of the most innocent—”
“That will do,” said the colonel, sternly. “I have listened to you long enough, gentlemen. I have no leisure for further intercourse. The officer of the day will withdraw the men from the town and you can meet at the church. Good-day.”
He saluted stiffly, and turned away, while the overawed group of delegates left the room in mournful silence, the terror being at its utmost hight.
When they were fairly in the street, Clark turned to his officers, who stood silently round, and said, solemnly:
“Gentlemen, pray God that when this war is over we may never have another. This is a bad business, and were it not that I intend to change the mourning of these poor creatures to joy before to-morrow, I swear to you that I would march back to Kentucky to-night. No, I wouldn’t neither; but I hate to be looked on as a wild beast. Bowman, keep the men out of the houses, as soon as the people go to the church. I swear I feel sick at heart.”