The listening village heard the shout and wondered. And when it had died down Colonel Clark took the old Gascon by the hand, and not a man of his but saw that this was a master-stroke of his genius.
“My friends,” he said simply, “I thank you. I would not force you, and you will have some days to think over the oath of allegiance to the Republic. Go now to your homes, and tell those who are awaiting you what I have said. And if any man of French birth wish to leave this place, he may go of his own free will, save only three whom I suspect are not our friends.”
They turned, and in an ecstasy of joy quite pitiful to see went trooping out of the gate. But scarce could they have reached the street and we have broken ranks, when we saw them coming back again, the priest leading them as before. They drew near to the spot where Clark stood, talking to the captains, and halted expectantly.
“What is it, my friends?” asked the Colonel.
The priest came forward and bowed gravely.
“I am Père Gibault, sir,” he said, “curé of Kaskaskia.” He paused, surveying our commander with a clear eye. “There is something that still troubles the good citizens.”
“And what is that, sir?” said Clark.
The priest hesitated.
“If your Excellency will only allow the church to be opened—” he ventured.
The group stood wistful, fearful that their boldness had displeased, expectant of reprimand.