“Yes, Moyse: rather you than I. You are a stout lad now, and I know nothing of camps. You shall take the gun, and I will stay and fish.”
“Leave your father his gun, if he chooses to remain, Moyse. We will find arms for you. Placide! Isaac!” he continued, looking from one to the other of his sons.
“And Denis,” cried the boy, placing himself directly in his father’s eye, as he returned breathless from the discharge of his errand.
“Yes, my boy, by-and-bye, when you are as strong as Placide. You shall come to the camp when we want you.”
“I will go to-day, father,” said Placide.
“What to do?” said Isaac. “I do not understand.”
Other eyes besides Aimée’s were fixed on Toussaint’s face, in anxiety for his reply.
“I do not know, my son, what we are to do next. When the parent of a nation dies, it may take some time to decide what is the duty of those who feel themselves bereaved. All I now am sure of is, that it cannot but be right for my children to be fitted to serve their country in any way that they may find to be appointed. I wish to train you to arms, and the time has come. Do not you think so?”
Isaac made no direct reply, and Aimée had strong hopes that he was prepared with some wise, unanswerable reason for remaining where he was. Meanwhile, his father proceeded—
“In all that I have done, in all that I now say, I have the sanction of Father Laxabon.”