“Yes, but how can it be sent? What can I do?”
“Carry it to him!”
“Angélique, are you mad? How could I carry it?”
“There is your answer,” she cried, pointing to Archie's uniform. “You will put these things on, and you can pass the gate without a question. Come, undress at once.”
“Oh, Angélique, I cannot! Let me go as I am and I will not hesitate, but—”
“For shame, Marguerite!” cried the high-spirited girl. “For shame! to think of yourself and such school-girl prudery at such a time! But forgive me, chérie; I did not quite mean that. I know what you feel. But do you think I would hesitate had I your height and could I speak English? No, a thousand times no! Marguerite, it must be done! You are the only woman—the only person, man or woman—in Quebec who can do it.”
“Angélique,” I cried, in an agony of distress, “think of my own people here; it would be almost like betraying them.”
“Well, think of them, but think of them as soldiers of King George against whom you were praying night and day, not so many years ago, as you have said yourself.”
“But there is my brother!”
“He is safe in bed down-stairs; and when he is a prisoner, Marguerite, I give you my word of honour I will go to M. de Lévis and claim him for myself, like a squaw;” and she laughed merrily.