a kicking lung, you know," he said, with a half ironical, half
self-pitying smile.

"Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Tom, my love!" she said as she buried her
face on his breast.

CHAPTER XIV

Before he left for the front next morning to join his company and march
to Papineau's headquarters, Nic came to Ferrol, told him, with rage and
disappointment, the story of the highway robbery, and also that he hoped
Ferrol would not worry about the Rebellion, and would remain at the
Manor Casimbault in any case.

"Anyhow," said he, "my mother's half English; so you're not alone. We're
going to make a big fight for it. We've stood it as long as we can. But
we're friends in this, aren't we, Ferrol?"

There was a pause, in which Ferrol sipped his whiskey and milk, and
continued dressing. He set the glass down, and looked towards the
open window, through which came the smell of the ripe orchard and the
fragrance of the pines. He turned to. Lavilette at last and said, as he
fastened his collar:

"Yes, you and I are friends, Nic; but I'm a Britisher, and my people
have been Britishers since Edward the Third's time; and for this same
Quebec two of my great-grand-uncles fought and lost their lives. If
I were sound of wind and limb I'd fight, like them, to keep what
they helped to get. You're in for a rare good beating, and, see, my
friend--while I wouldn't do you any harm personally, I'd crawl on my
knees from here to the citadel at Quebec to get a pot-shot at your
rag-tag-and-bobtail 'patriots.' You can count me a first-class enemy to
your 'cause,' though I'm not a first-class fighting man. And now,
Nic, give me a lift with my coat. This shoulder jibs a bit since the
bear-baiting."

Lavilette was naturally prejudiced in Ferrol's favour; and this
deliberate and straightforward patriotism more pleased than offended
him. His own patriotism was not a deep or lasting thing: vanity and a
restless spirit were its fountains of inspiration. He knew that Ferrol
was penniless--or he was so yesterday--and this quiet defiance of events
in the very camp of the enemy could not but appeal to his ebullient,
Gallic chivalry. Ferrol did not say these things because he had five
thousand dollars behind him, for he would have said them if he were
starving and dying--perhaps out of an inherent stubbornness, perhaps
because this hereditary virtue in him would have been as hard to resist
as his sins.

"That's all right, Ferrol," answered Lavilette.