“Yes,” said a steady young voice behind me; and I turned to see Petit Joliet himself, watching with undaunted eyes the burning of his home. “Yes, and it was a fine house. It would have hurt my father sorely, were he alive now, to see it go up in smoke like that.” “Well, you have a brave heart,” said I, liking him well as I saw his firmness. “Oh,” said he, “the only thing that is troubling me is this—shall I find my mother on this ship? They are making mistakes now, these English, in their haste to be done with us. I’m worried.” “If she is not on board,” said my kind Marc, “we’ll try and keep a watch on the boats; and if we see her bound for the wrong ship we’ll let the guard know. They _want_ to keep families together, if they can.” This was Marc, ever careful of others. But his good purpose was like to have been frustrated soon as formed; for scarce were our feet well on deck when our hands were clapped in irons, and we were marched off straight to the hold. “Sorry, sir. Can’t help it. So many of you, you know,” said the red-coat apologetically, as I stretched out my wrists to him. But glancing about the crowded deck I descried my good friend, Lieutenant Waldron, busily unravelling the snarl of things. In answer to my hail he came at once, warm, friendly, and trying not to see my irons. “One last little service, sir!” I cried. “Little to us, it may be great to others. You see we are ironed, Captain de Mer and I. We will give our word to neither attempt escape nor in any way interfere with this sorry work. Let us two wait here on deck till the ship sails. We know all these villagers; and we want to help you avoid the severance of families.” “It is little to grant for you, my friend,” said he, in a feeling voice. “You cannot know how my heart is aching. I will speak to the captain of the ship, and you shall stay on deck till the ship sails.” Marc thanked him courteously, but I with no more than a look, for words did not at that time seem compliant to say what I desired them to say. They are false and treacherous spirits, these words we make so free with and trust so rashly with affairs of life and death. How often do they take an honest meaning from the heart and twist it to the semblance of a lie as it leaves the lips! How often do they take a flame from the inmost soul, and make it ice before it reaches the soul toward which it thrilled forth! It has been my calling to work with words in peace, as with swords in time of war; and I know them. I do not trust them. The swords are the safer. Chapter XXIX The Hour of her Desolation