“You are thinking of us,” she said quietly.
I did not answer. I looked down at the ground, tapping my boot with my scabbard.
“I know not what it is, Mademoiselle, but my mind is deep in melancholy.”
She looked across to the pine barrens, sighing.
“It is the dying of the year or some movement of the elements,” she replied.
“Yes, doubtless that is it.”
And then we both sat silent again.
“Mademoiselle, you know that Don Diego de Baçan is there,” I said at last, pointing to the southward. “If anything should happen that we do not return so soon as we expect, promise me that you will yourself cause a private watch to be kept at the gates of Fort Caroline. If there are signs of attack, go at once with Madame to the woods. Forgive me, Mademoiselle, for asking you to bear a part of my uneasiness, but there are not many wise heads at Fort Caroline.”
She smiled a little at my eagerness.