I did not write intimately of my state, for I was not sure my
letters would ever pass outside Quebec. There were only two men I
could trust to do the thing. One was a fellow-countryman, Clark,
a ship-carpenter, who, to save his neck and to spare his wife and
child, had turned Catholic, but who hated all Frenchmen barbarously
at heart, remembering two of his bairns butchered before his eyes.
The other was Voban. I knew that though Voban might not act, he
would not betray me. But how to reach either of them? It was clear
that I must bide my chances.
One other letter I wrote, brief but vital, in which I begged the
sweetest girl in the world not to have uneasiness because of me;
that I trusted to my star and to my innocence to convince my
judges; and begging her, if she could, to send me a line at the
citadel. I told her I knew well how hard it would be, for her
mother and her father would not now look upon my love with favour.
But I trusted all to time and Providence.
I sealed my letters, put them in my pocket, and sat down to smoke
and think while I waited for Doltaire. To the soldier on duty,
whom I did not notice at first, I now offered a pipe and a glass
of wine, which he accepted rather gruffly, but enjoyed, if I might
judge by his devotion to them.
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