After French Prisoners.
There was some reason in Rodney Harding’s words, for as he turned from the little river he had come suddenly face to face with a thin gaunt-looking lad of about his own age, very shabbily dressed and almost ragged, who was gazing at him fiercely, and stood with one hand as if about to strike. Recovering himself on the instant, Rodney, obeying his first impulse, began to loosen the bottom joint of his rod ready to use it as a weapon—a defence against the expected attack—but in an instant the strange new-comer dropped his hand to his side, turned quickly away to look outward across the moor, and then cried wildly, his voice sounding strange of accent, and husky as if from exhaustion—
“No, no, don’t hit! I am so weak and so helpless. Help me. Tell me, which way can I go? They are close after me, and I can run no farther. Help!”
The poor wild-looking creature ended by sinking upon his knees amongst the heath, and raising his hands with a piteous gesture, while his imploring looks were quite sufficient to move the young fisherman’s heart.
“Why, who are you?” he cried. “You are not a beggar.”
“No, no! I confess. Oh, mon ami—I beg your pardon—sir! I forgot. I confess everything. It was for liberty; we were escaping, but the guard—the soldiers! They have been hunting us down like dogs.”
“A French prisoner?” cried the boy.
“Ah, oui—yes, monsieur. It is my misfortune. But the soldiers. We have been separated.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” said Rodney sharply.
“My father and I. I don’t know which way he has gone. They have taken him perhaps, and now it is no use; I may as well give up, for I can go no farther.”