But I put it from me, and soon
afterwards Doltaire said:
"I have now a slice of the Intendance for my own, and we shall
breakfast like squirrels in a loft."
As we drove into the open space before the palace, a company of
soldiers standing before the great door began marching up to the
road by which we came. With them was a prisoner. I saw at once that
he was a British officer, but I did not recognize his face. I asked
his name of Doltaire, and found it was one Lieutenant Stevens, of
Rogers' Rangers, those brave New Englanders. After an interview
with Bigot he was being taken to the common jail. To my request
that I might speak with him Doltaire assented, and at a sign from
my companion the soldiers stopped. Stevens's eyes were fixed on me
with a puzzled, disturbed expression. He was well built, of intrepid
bearing, with a fine openness of manner joined to handsome features.
But there was a recklessness in his eye which seemed to me to come
nearer the swashbuckling character of a young French seigneur than
the wariness of a British soldier.
I spoke his name and introduced myself. His surprise and pleasure
were pronounced, for he had thought (as he said) that by this time
I would be dead. There was an instant's flash of his eye, as if a
suspicion of my loyalty had crossed his mind; but it was gone on
the instant, and immediately Doltaire, who also had interpreted the
look, smiled, and said he had carried me off to breakfast while the
furniture of my former prison was being shifted to my new one.
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