“Ellen’s brother would think twice, no doubt,” she said, “before joining those poor soldiers that ran from Three Rivers. Ellen saw them, running before the guns of the British ships. Tell him, Ellen.”

Ellen continued to crease the folds of her dress. In a low voice she told what she had seen from the house in which she and her nun-companion had taken refuge on their return journey—American troops, mud-stained, dog-tired, like sheep without a leader, bombarded by the British fleet whenever they came out from the swamps onto the river road. “They fought with their muskets against the ships’ cannons,” she said. “We could even hear the soldiers on the ships, laughing when the Americans fired.”

“Poor men! Poor men!” Marie de Sabrevois sighed. “How could they expect to stand against England’s finest regiments!”

“They’d have stood against them, and whipped ’em, too,” I reminded her, “if Arnold had led ’em, or if they hadn’t trusted one of these pig-tailed Frenchmen!” I waited eagerly for her reply, but she made none.

“Well,” I said at last, “that’s what I came to talk about. You spoke of going to Albany with Ellen. I wanted to tell you what had happened, in case you didn’t know about it, so you could get started. It wouldn’t be pleasant for either of you, would it, if you were caught in a retreat?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Marie de Sabrevois admitted, “and it’s kind of you to have us in mind. When do you think we should start?”

“Right now,” I said. “As soon as you can.”

She nodded. “Yes, I can see you’re right. If there should be a retreat, the town might be burned or looted. We’ll do what you say.” Then, while I racked my brains for a way to get a word with Ellen alone, she added musingly: “We’re both so sorry, my little girl here and I, that your brother is away; that we can’t see him whenever we wish—which would be often, of course. Do you think he’ll be coming back to St. John’s soon?”

“It’s war time!” I reminded her. “Men can’t come and go as they like, Mademoiselle de Sabrevois.” Then, with a grudging sort of gallantry I looked at her significantly and said, “Otherwise I have no doubt Nathaniel would be in St. John’s all the time.”

“Ah, you’ve noticed it too?” she asked amusedly, and to my great puzzlement, she glanced at Ellen. “These young people!” she said, and added, “Well, I cannot see the harm. Ellen likes your brother very much—don’t you, Ellen?”

Ellen acquiescently murmured something inaudible to me. Her aunt gave me a merry glance, a look benevolent, as people do when they teasingly encourage an affair of young love. At that, Ellen blushed.