She wrenched herself free. Then, seeing me, as she thought, hesitate for an answer, she added firmly: “I love you! But I love honour more, and obedience to the right, and my plighted word. Go!” “I will _not_ go, my beloved, till you swear to tell the Englishman to-morrow that you love me and intend to be my wife.” “Listen,” she said. “If you do not go at once, I promise you that I will be George Anderson’s wife to-morrow.” I stared at her dumbly. Was it conceivable that she should mean such madness? Her eyes were fathomlessly sorrowful, her mouth was set. How was I to decide? But fortune elected to save me the decision. A sharp voice came from the bank above— “I arrest you, in the king’s name!” We glanced up. There stood a squad of red-coats, a spruce young officer at their head. Chapter XXV Over Gaspereau Ridge “Monsieur Waldron!” cried Yvonne faintly. “You here, Mademoiselle de Lamourie!” he exclaimed, with a surprise that his courtesy could not quite conceal. “This, monsieur,” she said, in a brave confusion, “is my friend, here for a moment because of my foolish desire to see him. I beg you”— But he interrupted, reluctantly enough: “It hurts me, mademoiselle, to have to say that your friend is my prisoner. If I were free to please you, he should go free.” The case was clearly beyond mending, so I would not condescend to evasion. “I can do nothing but surrender, monsieur,” said I civilly, “under the conclusive arbitrament of your muskets. Here is my sword.” He took it, and I went on: “I am Captain Paul Grande, of the French army in Canada.” His face changed. “A spy, then!” he said harshly. “You insult with impunity,” I began. “An unarmed”— But Yvonne broke in, her eyes flaming: “How dare you, sir, insult _me_? That is not to be done with impunity, I think.” The man looked puzzled. Then his face cleared somewhat. “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said slowly, looking from her face to mine. “I begin to understand a little, I think. There _is_ a very sufficient reason why a French officer might appear in an enemy’s country without his uniform—that country being Grand Pré—and yet be no spy!” “I give you my word of honour,” said I, “that I am no spy, but merely your prisoner. And if brought to trial I will prove what I say.” “I beg _your_ pardon also—provisionally,” he replied, with a pleasant air. “I am the last to believe a gentleman a spy, and I am confident you will clear yourself of the unavoidable charge. You are a soldier. You must see it to be unavoidable,” he added. “I do, monsieur,” said I sorrowfully. “I have lain for months, wounded and delirious, in a hiding-place not far off, nursed by a faithful friend. Having just recovered, I came here for a farewell to dear friends; and you have arrived inopportunely, monsieur.” There was the bitterness of final despair beneath the lightness which I assumed.