[CHAPTER XLVIII.]
Calm, and bright, and beautiful, the Sabbath morning broke over the woody world around Edith Prevost. Through the tall pine-trees left standing within the earthwork, the rosy light streamed sweetly; and though no birds deserving the name of songsters inhabit the forests of America, yet many a sweet short note saluted the rising day.
Edith, with the good negro woman lying near, had slept more soundly than she had hoped; but she was awake with the first ray, and rousing her dark companion, she said,--
"We must not forget that this is Sunday, Bab. Call in our good friend, Woodchuck; and we will pray before the noise and bustle of the day begins. I am sure he will be glad to do so."
"But you have no book, missy," answered the woman.
"That matters not," returned Edith; "I know almost all the prayers by heart, from reading them constantly."
Sister Bab opened the little hurdle-door, and looked round. She could not see the person she sought. Three sentinels were pacing to and fro at different points; one man was rousing himself slowly from the side of an extinguished fire; but all the rest within sight were fast asleep. It was useless for Sister Bab to ask the neighbouring sentinel any questions, and she looked round in vain.
"He has most likely gone to sleep in one of the huts," said Edith, when the woman told her Woodchuck was not to be seen; "we will not wait for him." And, closing the door again, she kneeled and prayed with the poor negress by her side.
It was a great comfort to her, for her heart that day was sad. Perhaps it was the memory of many a happy Sabbath with those she loved, and the contrast of those days with her situation at the time; perhaps it was the uncertainty of her brother's fate; and doubtless, too, the thought that every rising sun brought nearer the hour when a parent and a lover were to be exposed to danger--perhaps to death, had its weight likewise. But she was that day very sad, and prayer was a relief--a blessing.
Before she had concluded, a good deal of noise and turmoil was heard without; voices speaking sharply; calls such as Edith had not heard before; and in a moment after, the door of the hut opened, for it had no latch, and Monsieur le Courtois appeared, inquiring if she had seen anything of her English companion.