While I acknowledged his salutation, Angélique rattled on: “She has waited for you all this time to take her to Louisbourg, she and her waiting-woman. Where is Lucie? Oh, she has gone—frightened by the Indian, no doubt. She—I mean Marguerite—is so glad you have come. When do you go back?”
“Not to-night, at all events, ma belle. I'm sure even madame would not ask that. In any case not until I've tasted some of these good things. We can boast no such table at Miré.”
With much laughter we gradually settled down. When M. de Sarennes had doffed his outer wrappings and appeared in a close-fitting suit of some dark blue stuff, I thought I had seldom seen a handsomer type of man, and did not wonder at the pride his womenkind displayed. He was very tall, had a dark olive face like his sister, great flashing eyes, and black hair that rolled handsomely off his well-shaped forehead; and I could easily imagine that more usual clothing would transform him into a prince among his fellows.
Before taking his place at table he left us for a little to see after his men, who were provided for in the kitchen. When he returned, he said:
“Luntook, my Indian, tells me that it was he who carried you off, madame. He had taken you for English women, and even now can scarce be persuaded he was mistaken, though he gave you up to le père Jean.”
“We are English women, monsieur.”
“And you would go to Louisbourg?” he asked, I thought sharply, with a flash of his great eyes.
“Yes, monsieur,” I said, quietly.
But he said nothing further, beyond assuring me that the Indian was thoroughly trustworthy, and I need be in no fear of him.
Thereupon we sate down to table, and as her brother ate, Angélique related to him our story, or, rather, a merry burlesque of our adventures, at which he laughed heartily.