My whole existence now took on a different aspect; my duties were in no degree onerous; and Kit, the dear boy, so won every heart that he was looked upon as a guest of the whole garrison, rather than a prisoner. No restrictions were placed upon his movements, and we roamed over the whole country with our fowling-pieces or angles, and many a fine string of trout did we present to Madame de Drucour and other friends.
We explored the country from Louisbourg to Miré, and there we fell in with Sarennes and his following, with whom Kit was delighted beyond measure; and indeed there was much in the Canadian to attract those who did not look beyond the externals. He fairly enchanted the boy with his tales of savage life, his exhibition of his wild followers, and his skill in woodcraft and the chase, and I soon felt that Kit was revolving some plan for discovering the whereabouts of his mother through his aid.
This was the one flaw in my happiness. If I had not wished for her death, I had at least hoped never to hear of her again, and indeed there seemed but little likelihood of it in this remote quarter, but every inquiry on the part of Kit gave me fresh uneasiness. This he was quick to perceive, but as I had never given him an inkling of the reason, he put my holding to him down to the liking of a solitary exile for one of his own kind.
Sarennes, too, saw my fondness for the lad, and took a pleasure in attracting him from me on every possible excuse; but it was not until a dinner given by M. de Drucour at the New Year that I saw how far his petty cruelty could go.
With an air of assumed geniality he said to the Commandant: “M. de Drucour, before I start on my expedition to-morrow, I am tempted to ask for a volunteer in the English lad Christopher. He is anxious to go, and I shall be pleased to have him.”
“But, monsieur, you can hardly have him without me, for I am responsible to M. de Drucour for his safe-keeping,” I broke in, with a chilling fear at my heart that my one treasure in the world would be imperilled in such treacherous hands.
“M. de Maxwell seems over-fond of this prisoner,” sneered M. Prévost, who was an unwelcome guest, but could not well be left out on an official occasion. “A too-lenient jailer may be even more dangerous than his prisoner at times,” he went on; and I saw that further discussion might only precipitate matters, when I stood in so delicate a position; for a soldier in foreign service, no matter what his merit, is ever a ready object of suspicion.
However, M. de Drucour turned matters by addressing me in his usual courteous and friendly manner: “With these rumours of war in the spring, have you had no inspiration for your Muse, Chevalier?”
“I have a song, if you will not hold the end a reflection on our surroundings,” I replied. “However, remember that it is not I, but my sword, that sings, and, I am afraid, only strikes a note common to us all.”
I regret I cannot give the graceful French couplets into which Madame de Drucour had obligingly turned my verses, and so cleverly preserved all the fire and strength of my original, which must now serve as it was written.