Like lightning it
all went through my brain. I was ruined if she gave an alarm: all
Quebec would be at my heels, and my purposes would be defeated.
There was but one thing to do--tell her the whole truth, and trust
her; for I had at least done fairly by her and by the dead man.
So I told them how Jean Labrouk had met his death; told them who
I was, and why I was in Quebec--how Jean died in my arms; and,
taking from my breast the cross that Mathilde had given me, I swore
by it that every word which I said was true. The wife scarcely
stirred while I spoke, but with wide dry eyes and hands clasping
and unclasping heard me through. I told her how I might have left
Jean to die without a sign or message to them, how I had put the
cross to his lips as he went forth, and how by coming here at all I
placed my safety in her hands, and now, by telling my story, my
life itself.
It was a daring and a difficult task. When I had finished, both
sat silent for a moment, and then the old man said, "Ay, ay, Jean's
father and his uncle Marmon were killed a-horseback, and by the
knife. Ay, ay, it is our way. Jean was good company--none better,
mass over, on a Sunday. Come, we will light candles for Jean, and
comb his hair back sweet, and masses shall be said, and--"
Again the woman interrupted, quieting him.
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