“Possibly, too, M. de Maxwell may think it is not to be trusted in some Canadian hands,” broke in Sarennes, with a hectoring air.
“Now, gentlemen,” I returned, “you are coming too fast with your questions. As for you, M. de Sarennes, I once offered you some good advice which you did not see fit to follow, and now, even at the risk of having it similarly disregarded, I will proffer more; which is, not to expose yourself to punishment for the impertinences of others. As for your question, when I have had some more satisfactory experience of Canadians, I shall know better how to answer it.”
“And has not your experience of me been satisfactory, monsieur?” said he, pluming up again.
“You are perfectly qualified to answer that question, yourself,” I replied, looking “blank requisitions” at him so pointedly that he simply reddened to the roots of his black hair and held his tongue, to the amazement of all who had hoped for some further amusement.
“As for your question, M. Prévost,” I continued, rounding on him, “I made no reflection on Frenchmen in general. They are my comrades, my brothers-in-arms!” I said, playing to the company at large, by whom my sentiment was greeted with a burst of applause. “As to Frenchmen in particular, I have known some who were so dangerous with the pen that I would indeed hesitate to trust them with the sword.” Now, as Prévost was hated and dreaded for nothing more than his lying reports to the Minister at home, and as no man in any position at the table had escaped his venom, my sally was again greeted not only with applause, but also with a roar of stentorian laughter.
The whole affair ended in nothing more serious than the hot words and laughter, for Sarennes, though a braggart, was not evil-tempered, at least towards me. For Prévost I cared not a maravedi, and would have spitted him liked a smoked herring at any time with the greatest pleasure. My chief disappointment was that I had not succeeded in my attempt to obtain a refusal of Sarennes's request for Kit's company, an attempt I dared not renew, and was forced to give a reluctant consent when it was referred to me.
My heart was big with foreboding the last evening we spent together, and it required an effort almost beyond my powers to refrain from taking him into my arms and telling him he was my son. I almost persuaded myself that my life was so wretched, so lonely, so hopeless, that I would be justified in so doing. But for some reason or other I did not, why, I cannot pretend to say, and I saw him march proudly off at daybreak the next morning with my secret still untold. I wondered if any one would be equally faithful to me.
Such a weary month of January I never passed, for no one knew the danger of these miserable, skulking little war parties better than I; and to add to this there was my distrust of Sarennes eating at my heart every time I tried to make little of my fears.
What wonder was it, when the door of my room opened after a quiet knock, one stormy afternoon, and the dark face of the Canadian appeared, that I sprang to my feet and demanded, savagely: “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“He was taken,” he answered, quietly, “and I am here to answer for him.”