"As for your question, M. Prevost," I continued, rounding on him, "I made no reflection on Frenchmen in general. They are my comrades, my brothers-in-arms!" I said, playing to the company at large, by whom my sentiment was greeted with a burst of applause. "As to Frenchmen in particular, I have known some who were so dangerous with the pen that I would indeed hesitate to trust them with the sword." Now, as Prevost was hated and dreaded for nothing more than his lying reports to the Minister at home, and as no man in any position at the table had escaped his venom, my sally was again greeted not only with applause, but also with a roar of stentorian laughter. The whole affair ended in nothing more serious than the hot words and laughter, for Sarennes, though a braggart, was not evil-tempered, at least towards me. For Prevost I cared not a maravedi, and would have spitted him liked a smoked herring at any time with the greatest pleasure. My chief disappointment was that I had not succeeded in my attempt to obtain a refusal of Sarennes's request for Kit's company, an attempt I dared not renew, and was forced to give a reluctant consent when it was referred to me. My heart was big with foreboding the last evening we spent together, and it required an effort almost beyond my powers to refrain from taking him into my arms and telling him he was my son. I almost persuaded myself that my life was so wretched, so lonely, so hopeless, that I would be justified in so doing. But for some reason or other I did not, why, I cannot pretend to say, and I saw him march proudly off at daybreak the next morning with my secret still untold. I wondered if any one would be equally faithful to me. Such a weary month of January I never passed, for no one knew the danger of these miserable, skulking little war parties better than I; and to add to this there was my distrust of Sarennes eating at my heart every time I tried to make little of my fears. What wonder was it, when the door of my room opened after a quiet knock, one stormy afternoon, and the dark face of the Canadian appeared, that I sprang to my feet and demanded, savagely: "Where is he? What have you done with him?" "He was taken," he answered, quietly, "and I am here to answer for him." 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.