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Sieur Sarpy felt a twinge in his heart, and his lips contracted. Zulma noticed his emotion and immediately added: "I know that you are feeble, papa, and must not bear excitement, but what I have to ask you is simple and easy of accomplishment. Besides, I will leave you to judge and abide unreservedly by your decision."
Batoche may possibly be among them. In that case, we shall, of course, resign ourselves not to see him to-night." Raising her head from Zulma's shoulder, Blanche said rapidly and with some animation: "No, M. Sarpy, grandpapa is not a prisoner. He has always said that the Wolves would never catch him and I believe all that he says."
Sieur Sarpy smiled, and made no reply, but he had a vague belief that perhaps the child might be right after all. She was right. The evening wore away slowly. The servant cleared the table and trimmed the fire. Sieur Sarpy, instead of retiring to his private chamber, wheeled his chair to the hearth, and resumed the reading which he had interrupted before supper.
"The weasel makes an invisible hole, which is never filled up." Zulma listened with riveted eye, set lip, and distended nostril. Sieur Sarpy smiled. "You will kidnap Bouchette?" "I will." "And fetch him to the American camp?" "Yes." "Well, what of that? Bouchette is no friend of mine. I know him only by name. How does all this concern me?" "Precisely. That is just what I have come for."
See here, M. Sarpy, this is no time for mincing words. We must stand up and take a part in this war. We did not provoke it, but it has come and we must join it. You may prefer to remain neutral. I do not say you are wrong. Your health is poor, you have a young daughter, you have large estates. But for me and hundreds like me, there is only one course. I am an old French soldier, M. Sarpy.
Sieur Sarpy closed his book and holding up his right hand, asked: "Is the business political or personal." "Both. There is a question of crime on the one hand, and of mercy on the other. I appeal to your humanity."
Zulma having heard of the negotiations for the exchange of prisoners, the coming of Cary was not unexpected, and there was great rejoicing that evening at the Sarpy Mansion, as over one who had been lost and was found, who had died and had risen from the dead. Another month had passed. With the middle of April the balmy spring-time was at hand.
At the end of a fortnight, Batoche arrived at the Sarpy mansion with a bit of more definite news. He had not himself succeeded in penetrating to the interior of the town, but he had unexpectedly met in the woods, near his hut, at Montmorenci, a poor broken down countryman of his who had deserted from the militia.
She detailed the narrative which the priest had given her, supplementing it largely with the comments dictated by her fears. The effect upon Sieur Sarpy was hardly less than it had been upon his daughter. He listened in profound silence, but with an anxiety and surprise which he did not attempt to conceal.
An unforeseen circumstance hastened their meeting. Sieur Sarpy having learned that an intimate friend of his, living at the village of Charlesbourg, was very ill and particularly desired to see him, proposed to Zulma that she should accompany him on the visit.
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