The sick nun said, "I have never exposed any one and I never will. I have the secrets of a great many hid in my breast, that nothing shall ever extort from me." Here she was interrupted, and soon left the room. I never saw her again. Whether she was under punishment, or was so fortunate as to make her escape, I do not know. As no questions could be asked, it was very little we could know of each other. If one of our number escaped, the fact was carefully concealed from the rest, and if she was caught and brought back, no one ever knew it, except those who had charge of her. The other nun who worked in the room with me, watched me very closely. Having heard me declare my intention to leave the first opportunity, she determined to go with me if possible.
CHAPTER XI. — THE JOY OF FREEDOM.
At length the long sought opportunity arrived, and with the most extatic joy we fled from the nunnery. The girl I have before mentioned, who wished to go with me, and another nun, with whom I had no acquaintance, were left in the kitchen to assist me, in taking charge of the cooking, while the rest of the people were at mass in the chapel. A chance presented for us to get away, and we all fled together, leaving the cooking to take care of itself. We were assisted to get out of the yard, but how, or by whom, I can never reveal. Death, in its most terrible form would be the punishment for such an act of kindness, and knowing this, it would be the basest ingratitude for me to name the individual who so kindly assisted us in our perilous undertaking.
How well do I remember the emotions that thrilled my soul when I found myself safely outside the walls of that fearful prison! The joy of freedom—the hope of ultimate success—the fear of being overtaken, and dragged back to misery or death, were considerations sufficiently exciting to agitate our spirits, and lend fleetness to our steps. With trembling limbs, and throbbing hearts we fled towards the St. Lawrence river. Following the tow-path, we hastened on for a few miles, when one of the nuns became exhausted, and said she could go no further. She was very weak when we started, and the excitement and fatigue produced serious illness. What should we do with her? We could not take her along with us, and if we stopped with her, we might all be taken and carried back. Must we leave her by the way-side? It was a fearful alternative, but what else could we do? With sad hearts we took her to a shed near by, and there we left her to her fate, whatever it might be; perchance to die there alone, or what was still worse, be carried back to the convent. It was indeed, a sorrowful parting, and we wept bitter tears together, as we bade her a last farewell. I never saw or heard from her again.
We pursued our way along the tow-path for a short distance, when the canal boat came along. We asked permission to go upon the boat, and the captain kindly granted it, but desired us to be very still. He carried us twelve miles, and then proposed to leave us, as he exposed himself to a heavy fine by carrying us without a pass, and unattended by a priest or Superior. We begged him to take us as far as he went with the boat, and frankly told him our situation. Having no money to offer, we could only cast ourselves on his mercy, and implore his pity and assistance. He consented to take us as far as the village of Beauharnois, and there he left us. He did not dare take us further, lest some one might be watching for us, and find us on his boat.
It was five o'clock in the morning when we left the boat, but it was a Roman Catholic village, and we did not dare to stop. All that day we pursued our way without food or drink, and at night we were tired and hungry. Arriving at a small village, we ventured to stop at the most respectable looking house, and asked the woman if she could keep us over night. She looked at us very attentively and said she could not. We did not dare to call again, for we knew that we were surrounded by those who would think they were doing a good work to deliver us up to the priests. Darkness came over the earth, but still weary and sleepy as we were, we pursued our lonely way. I will not repeat our bitter reflections upon a cold hearted world, but the reader will readily imagine what they were.
Late in the evening, we came to an old barn. I think it must have been four or five miles from the village. There was no house, or other building near it, and as no person was in sight, we ventured to enter. Here, to our great joy, we found a quantity of clean straw, with which we soon prepared a comfortable bed, where we could enjoy the luxury of repose. We slept quietly through the night, and at the early dawn awoke, refreshed and encouraged, but O, so hungry! Gladly would we have eaten anything in the shape of food, but nothing could we find.
The morning star was yet shining brightly above us, as we again started on our journey. At length our hearts were cheered by the sight of a village. The first house we came to stood at some distance from the other buildings, and we saw two women in a yard milking cows. We called at the door, and asked the lady for some milk. "O yes," said she, with a sweet smile, "come in, and rest awhile, and you shall have all you want." She thought we were Sisters of Charity, for they often go about visiting the sick, and praying with the people. It is considered a very meritorious act to render them assistance, and speed them on their way; but to help a runaway nun is to commit a crime of sufficient magnitude to draw down the anathema of the church. Therefore, while we carefully concealed our real character, we gratefully accepted the aid we so much needed, but which, we were sure, would have been withheld had she known to whom it was offered. After waiting till the cows were milked, and she had finished her own breakfast, she filled a large earthen pan with bread and milk, gave each of us a spoon, and we ate as much as we wished. As we arose to depart, she gave each of us a large piece of bread to carry with us, and asked us to pray with her. We accordingly knelt in prayer; implored heaven's blessing on her household, and then took our leave of this kind lady, never more to meet her on earth; but she will never be forgotten.