“That was all nonsense,” said the youth sharply, “about the cow, and your mother and sister, wasn’t it?”
“Of course it was. Do you think I was going to give a straight answer to a fool like Shoveloff?”
“But you have left a mother behind you, I suppose?” said André, in a low voice.
“No, lad, no; my mother died when I was but a child, and has left naught but the memory of an angel on my mind.”
The scout said no more for a time, but the tone of his voice had opened the heart of the young dragoon. After a short silence he ventured to ask a few more questions. The scout replied cheerfully, and, from one thing to another, they went on until, discovering that they were sympathetic spirits, they became confidante, and each told to the other his whole history.
That of the young dragoon was short and simple, but sad. He had been chosen, he said, for service from a rural district, and sent to the war without reference to the fact that he was the only support of an invalid mother, whose husband had died the previous year. He had an elder brother who ought to have filled his place, but who, being given to drink, did not in any way fulfil his duties as a son. There was also, it was true, a young girl, the daughter of a neighbour, who had done her best to help and comfort his mother at all times, but without the aid of his strong hand that girl’s delicate fingers could not support his mother, despite the willingness of her brave heart, and thus he had left them hurriedly at the sudden and peremptory call of Government.
“That young girl,” said Petroff, after listening to the lad’s earnest account of the matter with sympathetic attention, “has no place there, has she?”—he touched the left breast of André’s coat and nodded.
The blush of the young soldier was visible even in the dim light of the camp-fire as he started up on one elbow, and said—
“Well, yes; she has a place there!”
He drew out a small gilt locket as he spoke, and, opening it, displayed a lock of soft auburn hair.