By this the boat was come to the ship-side. By some one’s carelessness it was not rightly fended, and was suffered to bump heavily. One gunwale dipped; an icy flood poured in; there was imminent peril of swamping.
Women jumped up with screams, and children caught at them, terror-stricken by the looming black wall of the ship’s side. The boatmen cursed fiercely. The two soldiers in the boat shouted: “Sit down! damn you! sit down!” with such authority that all obeyed at once. The shrill clamour ceased; the peril was over; the embarkation went on. Mother Pêche, with nerves of steel, had but gripped the more firmly upon Yvonne’s hand. As for Yvonne, she had apparently taken no note of the disturbance.
Driven by a consuming purpose, which had gathered new fuel from the picture of the fettered captives in the hold, Yvonne had no sooner reached the deck than she started off to find the captain. But Mother Pêche was at her elbow on the instant, clinging to her.
“I must see the captain at once!” exclaimed Yvonne, “and make some inquiry—find out something!”
“Yes, chérie,” whispered the old dame, with loving irony, “and get yourself recognized, and be taken back next boat to Monsieur George Anderson.”
The girl’s head drooped. She saw how near she had been to undoing herself through impatience. She submissively followed the red shawl to a retired place near the bow of the ship. There the two settled themselves into a warm nest of beds and blankets, wherefrom they could watch the end of the embarking. But what more engrossed their eyes was the end of Grand Pré; for by now the sea of fire was roaring over more than half the village, the whole world seemed awash with ruddy air, and the throbs of scorching heat, even at their distance and with the wind blowing from them, made them cover their faces from time to time and marvel if this could be a December night.
Fascinated by the monstrous roar, the mad red light, the rolling level canopy of cloud, the old woman sat a long time silent, her startling eyes very wide open, her hawk face set in rigid lines. But the lines softened, the eyes filmed suddenly, at a sound close beside her. Yvonne had buried her face in a coloured quilt, and was sobbing tempestuously.
“It is well! It had to come! It was just a pulling of herself up by the roots to leave her father and mother, poor heart!” thought the old woman to herself. Then after a few minutes, she said aloud:
“That is right, dear heart! Cry all you can. Cry it all out. You have held it back too long.”
“Oh, how could I leave them so? How could I be so cruel?” moaned the girl, catching her breath at every word or two. “They will die of sorrow, I know they will!”