"Of what appearance was he?" I inquired, in return.
"Oh," she cried breathlessly, "he was square yet spare of figure, dark-skinned almost as Marc, with a very wide lower face, thin, thin lips, and remarkably light eyes set close together,—a strange, strong face that might look very cruel if he were angry. He looked angry once when he was arguing with the Indians."
"You have excellently described our bitterest foe, and yours, Madame," said I, smiling. "The wicked Abbé La Garne, the pastor and master of these poor tools of his whom I would fain have spared, but could not." And I pointed to the bodies of the three dead savages, where they lay sprawling in various pathetic awkwardnesses of posture.
She looked, seemed to think of them for the first time, shivered, and turned away her pitiful eyes.
"Those poor wretches," I continued, "were sent by this kind priest to capture you. He knew when and where to find you, because he had played the eavesdropper when Marc and I were talking of you."
"Oh," she cried, clenching her white hands desperately, "can there be a priest so vile?"
"Ay, and this which you have heard is but a part of his villany. We have but lately baulked him in a plot whereby he had nearly got Marc hanged. This, Madame, I promise myself the honour of relating to you by and by; but now we must get the poor lad removed to some sort of house and comfort."
"And, oh," cried this poor mother, in a voice of piercing anguish and amazement, as if she could not yet wholly realize it,—"my boy, my boy! He is in the power of such a monster!"
"Be of good heart, I beseech you," said I, with a kind of passion in my voice. "I will find him, I swear I will bring him back to you. I will wait only so long as to see my own boy in safe hands!"
Again that look of trust was turned upon me, thrilling me with invincible resolve.