“Then,” said I, “you may depart with your shallop. Your mast and sail, however, must be ours; and for these I will pay. I will also pay for the wheat which was thrown into the river, and you shall have a share of our provisions, got from the Indians.”
“Monsieur,” said he, “I shall remember with pride that I have dealt with so fair a foe. I can not regret the pleasure of your acquaintance, even at the price. And see, monsieur, I do not think you the criminal they have made you out, and so I will tell a lady—”
I raised my hand at him, for I saw that he knew something, and Mr. Stevens was near us at the time.
“Chevalier,” said I, drawing him aside, “if, as you say, you think I have used you honourably, then, if trouble falls upon my wife before I see her again, I beg you to stand her friend. In the sad fortunes of war and hate of me, she may need a friend—even against her own people, on her own hearthstone.”
I never saw a man so amazed; and to his rapid questionings I gave the one reply, that Alixe was my wife. His lip trembled.
“Poor child! poor child!” he said; “they will put her in a nunnery. You did wrong, monsieur.”
“Chevalier,” said I, “did you ever love a woman?”
He made a motion of the hand, as if I had touched upon a tender point, and said, “So young, so young!”
“But you will stand by her,” I urged, “by the memory of some good woman you have known!”
He put out his hand again with a chafing sort of motion. “There, there,” said he, “the poor child shall never want a friend. If I can help it, she shall not be made a victim of the Church or of the State, nor yet of family pride—good God, no!”