d
driven down to the village church for her devotions, and of course
presumed that something had happened to her there. He was once on the
point of teasing her about the scolding which he supposed that the
priest had administered to her, but he immediately checked himself. With
the well-bred old French gentleman deep respect formed perhaps the chief
ingredient of the ardent love which he bore his daughter. He carried his
consideration so far that he would not even question her. It became
therefore incumbent on Zulma to break the painful silence. She detailed
the narrative which the priest had given her, supplementing it largely
with the comments dictated by her fears. The effect upon Sieur Sarpy
was hardly less than it had been upon his daughter. He listened in
profound silence, but with an anxiety and surprise which he did not
attempt to conceal. For a long time he ventured to make no reply, and
when at length he did so, it was in such hesitating language as showed
that he was haunted by the same apprehensions which besieged his
daughter. He had therefore scant consolation to offer her, and the
evening meal thus passed without any break in that mental gloom which
was deeper than the darkness which rolled in the exterior heavens.

Little Blanche sat at Zulma's side listening to the discourse with wide
distended eyes, and that expression of vacancy which was so frequent
with this strange child. Not a word had escaped her, and it was evident
that the effect was as great upon her acute mind as upon that of her two
companions.

"If Batoche would only come," murmured Zulma, passing her hand over her
weary brow. "He would tell us everything. I wonder he is not here
already."

"His absence is an additional cause for fear," replied Sieur Sarpy in a
low voice.

"Still, I do not despair. He may arrive before the night is over."

"If he is alive."

"What, papa? You do not suppose that Batoche took part in the attack?"

"I do. I am sure he never quitted the side of Cary Singleton."

"I did not think of that. Alas! I fear you are right. In that case, who
knows?"

"Yes, the worst may have happened to our old friend, and he may never
return."

Both Zulma and her father instinctively looked at little Blanche. An
angelic smile played upon her lips and her eyes were far away.

"Blanche," said Zulma, laying her hand softly on the child's shoulder.

"Yes, Mademoiselle. Grandpapa when he left me, two days ago, said _au
revoi