Marie de Sabrevois raised her hands and eyes in mock despair. “She went yesterday morning. She’ll return when her errand is done—tomorrow, it may be; or the day after.”

“Well,” I said, “it seems strange to me that you no sooner arrive here than you let her go running off alone to a wilderness like St. Francis—you, who have been so eager to see her for months and months. Strange, too, that you let her go just after Sullivan’s troops had come. Didn’t you know the roads would be crowded with horsemen and supply carts—crowded and difficult!”

“What’s strange about it?” she demanded. “You’re jumping at conclusions! Ellen went to the convent at Three Rivers: not to St. Francis. The nuns will arrange to have Joseph brought across the river to see her. But I’m not surprised it seems strange to you! When she felt she had to go, I longed to go with her, but I was worn out by my voyage—exhausted! Even this little walk has quite overcome me! You see, I’m not strong, and fear me I must return to Madame St. Auge’s already!”

She sighed pathetically; but to me she looked as though she had known nothing of exhaustion for many a long year. She was as shapely and elastic as a sleek young cat; and sleek young cats have extraordinary powers of endurance.

“I wonder you didn’t send word for Ellen’s brother to come here?” I said.

She had a ready answer. “No: it would be unsafe for him to travel through American troops—through our troops. They mightn’t understand that he isn’t really an Indian, and might not believe him friendly to our cause.” Then she added softly, “I’m glad you take this interest in Ellen. I’m sure you’ll help us on our way to Albany if you should have the chance.”

She couldn’t help knowing, as well as I, that I was a nobody in the army, and little able to help Ellen Phipps or anyone else. I wondered what lay behind those clear blue eyes; but there was no way, so far as I could see, of finding out.

“Your uncle,” I said, “should be able to make everything easy for you. I thought he’d be here before now.”

“My uncle?” she asked, and seemed surprised. “You haven’t heard from him? You didn’t know? Poor man, he has a broken leg, and cannot travel.”

“Be damned to a broken leg!” I told myself. “You’ve got everything figured out, as slick as a whistle!” To her I only nodded gravely and said I was sorry to hear of Mr. Leonard’s misfortune. Then I asked: “When shall you go to Albany, ma’am?”