There was such a dignity in his bearing, such a sensibility in his look, that I was melted at once, and my murderous suspicion put to flight.
“A thousand pardons, monsieur, for my rudeness. I have been anxious day and night for the boy. Tell me what has happened.”
He told the story simply, and I could not doubt that he told it truly. It was the ordinary incident, common to these wretched marauding parties, an attempted surprise, a couple of men lost, my poor boy wounded and captured before the baffled coureurs de bois could attempt a rescue.
When Sarennes left me with some words of sympathy, I was suffering only what hundreds of fathers have suffered before me. That it was common was no alleviation to my pain.
[CHAPTER X]
“HE WHO SOWS HATRED SHALL GATHER RUE”
Sarennes had taken himself off again to gather fresh laurels in ambuscade and retreat, the alternatives which compose the whole science of la petite guerre, and I had but little to remind me of my loss save the constant ache at my heart when I was alone, a position I strove by every means possible to avoid.
That Sarennes was desirous of making some reparation for his injury towards me, was proved by a letter from him dated in March, and written from his mother's house at Beaulieu:
“Chevalier,—There is an Englishwoman staying here who claims to be your wife. What do you wish me to do in the matter? I am ready to oblige you in any way.
“Sarennes.”