would never come near M.
Belmont's residence. As to M. Belmont's personal case, he would simply
advise him to maintain his ground, and not compromise himself by flight.
He knew that his friend was no coward, but flight was a cowardly act.
Then, there was Pauline to consider--an all-powerful argument. All his
life had been consecrated to her--let it be consecrated to the end. He
had made many sacrifices in her behalf--he should not recoil before this
greatest sacrifice. The dear child might acquiesce, but it would cause
her many a secret tear, and such as she were too good to be made
unhappy. Besides, M. Belmont should think of his compatriots. He was
their foremost man. If he fled, they would all be put under the ban. If
he deserted them, what would many of them do in the supreme hour of
trial that was coming?

M. Belmont listened attentively, almost religiously to the words of the
man whom he had of late so much learned to admire, and whose wisdom was
never more apparent than on the present occasion. He thanked Batoche
warmly, but failed to say that he would follow his advice. Instead of
that, he took him by the hand and drew him into the apartment where the
young people were seated.

They too had had an absorbing conversation. It was the sight of Cary
which had so suddenly unbalanced Pauline when she first entered the
cabin. From a hasty note which Batoche had smuggled into the town, she
had learned of his misfortune at the Intendant's Palace. She had been
feverishly anxious to hear more about his fate. This was one of the
causes why she decided upon accompanying her father in his perilous
journey that night. She knew she would meet Batoche and gather full
particulars from him. But she had no suspicion that she would see Cary
himself. And the presence of Zulma was another mystery. But after she
recovered consciousness, as we have seen, and, seated between them, had
heard the explanation of everything, not only did her spirits revive,
but she forgot all the other sorrows which waited upon her. Cary, too,
completely overlooked his own ailments in the joy of her presence. And
Zulma, without misgiving, without afterthought, was perhaps the happiest
of the three, because she partook of the pleasure which her two friends
experienced in each other's society.

Thus a full hour of unalloyed enjoyment passed away, after which the
conversation necessarily drifted into more serious courses. It could
hardly be otherwise in view