If I cried on that tender heart, and spoke no word, and was but a child again, I am sure that it was of all ways the best to tell her that never again should she be hurt by any act of mine.
“See, there is Judith at the door, wondering where I am,” she said, “and what is to be for dinner. I must go and get ready the fatted calf. Ah, I would not have left one alive. Yes, yes, I can jest, because I am no more afraid, mon fils, nor ever shall be.”
Upon this I would have said something of my deep shame, and of the swine among whom I had wallowed.
“No,” she cried; “c’est fini, mon cher. It is all over. The swine will eat alone hereafter.” She would hear no more, only adding, “As for me, I want to be told once how brave I was. Jack said so; indeed he did. I was brave, was I not?”
“Don’t, dear mother! please! I cannot bear it.” Somehow this plea, so childlike, to be praised for what must have cost so much, quite overcame me.
“Yes, yes,” she said; “I understand thee, and I shall always. How strong thou art, mon fils! I was proud of thee, even in that sty of pigs in red coats. And he behaved like a gentleman, and hath wondrous self-command. I would see him again; who is he?”
I told her his name.
“Que c’est drole. That is curious. Thy cousin! No doubt we shall see him to-day, and thy father. I shall tell him all—all. He must know.”
“Yes, he must know,” I said; “but I will tell him myself.”
“He will be angry, but that is part of thy punishment.”