Edith, with her good negro woman lying near, had slept more soundly than she had hoped for, 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 all 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," said the beautiful girl. "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 neighboring 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 knelt and prayed with the poor negress by her side.
It was a great comfort to her, for her heart that day was sad, perhaps from the memory of many a Sabbath with those she loved, and the contrast of those days with her situation at the time; perhaps from 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 Comtois appeared, inquiring if she had seen anything of her English companion.
"No, indeed," replied Edith. "I sent my servant out to seek for him half an hour ago, but she could not find him, and I concluded he was in one of the huts."
The Frenchman stamped his foot upon the ground, and, forgetting his usual politeness, uttered some hasty and angry words, implying a belief that Edith knew very well where Woodchuck was, and had aided his escape. The beautiful girl drew herself up with an air of dignity, and replied: "You make me feel, sir, that I am a prisoner. But you mistake me greatly. I do not permit myself to speak falsely on any occasion. If he has escaped you--and I trust he has--I knew nothing of it."
"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle," replied the officer, "but this to me is a very serious matter. I may be subjected to the severest military punishment for this unfortunate affair. It was of the utmost importance that the existence of this post should be kept a secret. The utmost precautions have been taken to keep its existence concealed, even from the forces in Fort Carillon; and now this man is at large, to bear the intelligence to the enemy. This must excuse a little heat. How he has escaped, it is impossible to divine, for I ordered him to be kept in sight by the sentinels continually, as well as the Indians who came with you. He must be worse than an Indian, for they are all safe and quiet enough, but he has disappeared, though the sentinel swears he passed him sleeping on the ground, under the great pine tree, not an hour ago."