The poor curé looked from one to the other, as if doubting whether they were not playing a cruel practical joke on him. The faces of all the officers had been blackened in streaks with gunpowder and water, in a fashion which many of the grimly-humorous backwoodsmen had taken from the Indian war-paint. In dress they were no way superior to their men, and the wearing of swords was all that distinguished them. Such a looking set of ruffians might have frightened any one, much more the poor Frenchmen, whose minds had been industriously filled with horrible stories about the “rebels” by Hamilton’s and Rocheblave’s emissaries.

Clark, whose pity was excited by the evident terror of these feeble old men, came forward kindly enough, and said:

“I am Colonel Clark, of Kentucky, gentlemen, commander of this force. What is your business? Fear nothing. We will not kill you. Speak freely.”

Father Gibault, who seemed to be spokesman, was so much affected by the kind tone, that he faltered:

“God bless you, monsieur! God bless you! You are very kind, and we are very old.”

Clark waved his hand impatiently.

“Well, well, gentlemen, what is your business? Speak quickly, for I am busy.”

“Monsieur,” said the priest, earnestly, “we are well aware that your people do not belong to our church, and that you hold its doctrines in derision; but, monsieur, we beg leave to assure you that we are very quiet, harmless people. We know that the fortune of war has thrown us into your hands, and that we must expect to be separated from our happy[76] homes, perhaps never to meet again. But, oh, monsieur, we beg, in the name of humanity, that you will allow us to meet once more, for the last time in our church, to hear one last mass, and to take leave of each other.”

And the five old men, with one accord, broke out weeping in the most piteous manner, crying:

“Oh, monsieur, for the love of God!” “Pity us!” “Indeed we did not know who you were.” “The commandant told us you were all savages.” “But we know better now.”

As if by one consent, the rough backwoodsmen jumped up and stamped away to the windows, while muttered exclamations of sympathy were heard.

Clark waved his hand for silence, for he had his face under more control than his subordinates, though he too was much affected by the spectacle of old men in tears.

Then he said, in a careless tone:

“I have nothing to say against your church, gentlemen. That is a matter we Americans leave every man to settle with his God. If your people wish to assemble in the church, they can do so; but at the same time, if they do, they must not venture out of town. I will withdraw the troops to let you assemble. Is that all?”

“Oh, thanks, monsieur, thanks!” cried father Gibault, in a tone of great relief. “But, oh, monsieur, if you would only listen to us for a little while, I feel confident that we could convince you that our intentions have always been of the most innocent—”

“That will do,” said the colonel, sternly. “I have listened to you long enough, gentlemen. I have no leisure for further intercourse. The officer of the day will withdraw the men from the town and you can meet at the church. Good-day.”

He saluted stiffly, and turned away, while the overawed group of delegates left the room in mournful silence, the terror being at its utmost hight.

When they were fairly in the street, Clark turned to his officers, who stood silently round, and said, solemnly:

“Gentlemen, pray God that when this war is over we may never have another. This is a bad business, and were it not that I intend to change the mourning of these poor creatures[77] to joy before to-morrow, I swear to you that I would march back to Kentucky to-night. No, I wouldn’t neither; but I hate to be looked on as a wild beast. Bowman, keep the men out of the houses, as soon as the people go to the church. I swear I feel sick at heart.”

It was nearly sunset before the people separated from the church. The windows were wide open, for it was still very hot and sultry, and the whole force of the Americans was drawn up near by, resting silently on their arms, auditors of all that passed and very respectful auditors.

They could hear the solemn voice of the old priest, chanting mass, the responses of the congregation broken by sobs and tears. Then several of the older inhabitants made long and pathetic speeches, urging to resignation under the will of Heaven, while women and children cried, and men groaned aloud.

And, outside of the church, the supposed barbarians, whom the terrified people within looked on as little better than their fierce Indian neighbors, were hushed in pitying silence, while some of the roughest broke down and blubbered secretly.

At last there was a deep hush, within and without, as the priest, with faltering voice pronounced the benediction, and a stir, that followed, announced that the people were coming out.

Suddenly Clark, who had been standing, gloomily leaning on his sword, started.

“Attention!” he shouted, sternly. “Stand to your arms there, men! Who gave you leave to fall out? Shoulder arms! Support arms! Silence in the ranks! Officers to your posts!”

Then, as the door opened, and father Gibault came out with a few of the principal inhabitant............