“I know,” she said. “I wish you to believe that I do not like to be underhanded. What is more, I do not wish to remain longer among people who fight against you and your country. I must tell you how I arrived at that thought. I imagined myself a mother, whose son was marching out with Indians and Germans so to make poor people obey rulers and laws they did not wish to obey. I saw at once that it would be impossible for me to feel pride in what he was doing. Because of that, I shall get away from here whenever I can. I shall go into the colonies—into your colonies.”

“Get away? Are you—–”

“What you must understand,” she interrupted, “is that what I did—the taking of letters to Albany, and speaking to my aunt of what I had seen—was done because she was so sweet, always: how could I think she would do what she has done?”

“It’s not necessary for you to explain—–”

“Yes, it’s necessary. I can’t be at peace until I hear you admit that I was obliged to trust in her goodness because of her kindness.” Almost wildly, I thought, she persisted. “And she is good! She is good!”

“Ellen,” I said, “what did you mean when you said you’d get away from here whenever you could? You meant your aunt won’t allow you to leave, didn’t you?”

“Listen,” she said earnestly, “I must tell you this: I had a horror last night, when I learned from Monsieur Lanaudiere that you were here—I had a horror you’d be sent away with the Indians: that they’d be permitted to take you.”

“What made you think that, Ellen?”

She shook her head. “I fear for you, always. I imagine the worst. If I hear of a battle, I think always that you’ll be killed: not that you may come out of it unhurt, or only a little wounded.” She put her hand on my arm. “Was it a very terrible bad battle that you’ve been in on the lake?”

“Where would you go in the colonies?” I asked. “You haven’t any relatives, have you?”

“No, I have no relatives. The first time you spoke with me, you told me about your sister Jane.” She shot a quick glance at me and then added hurriedly, “I could make myself useful, and I’m said to have an even disposition. Would your mother find a place for me in your house, do you think?”

I looked around at the sentries. They stood stolidly at my very shoulder. I wanted to kill them—to do anything that would let me be alone with Ellen.

I fumbled for words. “Why,” I said, “my mother—my sisters—they’d be—I mean, they couldn’t—we’d love you—everyone—–”