An impressive French tutor—­a fine old fellow, obsequious and bald-headed—­sat by me all night to give me medicine.  In the morning I felt as if I had a new heart in me, and was planning to mount my horse.  I thought I ought to go on about my business, but I fear I thought more of the young ladies and the possibility of my seeing them again.  The baroness came in after I had a bite to eat.  I told her I felt able to ride,

“You are not able, my child.  You cannot ride the horse now,” said she, feeling my brow; “maybe not for a ver’ long time.  I have a large house, plenty servant, plenty food.  Parbleu! be content.  We shall take good care of you.  If there is one message to go to your chief, you know I shall send it.”

I wrote a brief report of my adventure with the British, locating the scene as carefully as might be, and she sent it by mounted messenger to “the Burg.”

“The young ladies they wish to see you,” said the baroness.  “They are kind-hearted; they would like to do what they can.  But I tell them no; they will make you to be very tired.”

“On the contrary, it will rest me.  Let them come,” I said.

“But I warn you,” said she, lifting her finger as she left the room, “do not fall in love.  They are full of mischief.  They do not study.  They do not care.  You know they make much fun all day.”

The young ladies came in presently.  They wore gray gowns admirably fitted to their fine figures.  They brought big bouquets and set them, with a handsome courtesy, on the table beside me.  They took chairs and sat solemn-faced, without a word, as if it were a Quaker meeting they had come to.  I never saw better models of sympathetic propriety.  I was about to speak.  One of them shook her head, a finger on her lips.

“Do not say one word,” she said solemnly in English.  “It will make you ver’ sick.”

It was the first effort of either of them to address me in English.  As I soon knew, the warning had exhausted her vocabulary.  The baroness went below in a moment.  Then the one who had spoken came over and sat near me, smiling.

“She does not know you can speak French,” said she, whispering and addressing me in her native tongue, as the other tiptoed to the door.  “On your life, do not let her know.  She will never permit us to see you.  She will keep us under lock and key.  She knows we cannot speak English, so she thinks we cannot talk with you.  It is a great lark.  Are you better?”

What was I to do under orders from such authority?  As they bade me, I hope you will say, for that is what I did.  I had no easy conscience about it, I must own.  Day after day I took my part in the little comedy.  They came in Quaker-faced if the baroness were at hand, never speaking, except to her, until she had gone.  Then—­well, such animation, such wit, such bright eyes, such brilliancy, I have never seen or heard.