had lost his home, his farm, his barns, his orchards, and his easy
satisfaction with life; but thanks to Pierre's promptitude and his own
shrewdness he had saved all his household stuff, his cattle, his hay
and grain, and the little store of gold coin which had been hidden
under the great kitchen hearth. His house was the last to be fired,
and even now, as Pierre and his mother stood watching, long red horns
of flame were pushed forth, writhing, from the low gables. The two were
silent, save for the woman's occasional heavy sobs. Presently the roof
fell in, and then the boy's wet eyes flashed. A body of the English
troops could be seen pitching tents in the orchard. "Mother!" said
the boy, "what if we had stayed at home and waited for these English
to protect us? They are our enemies, these English; and the abbe is
our enemy; and the Indians are our enemies; and our only friends
are--yonder!"

As Pierre spoke he turned his back on the lurid sky and pointed to the
crest of Beausejour. There, in long, dark lines, stood nearly a thousand
French troops, drawn up on parade. The light from the ruined village
gleamed in blood-red flashes from their steel, and over them the banner
of France flapped idly with its lilies.

That night, because Antoine Lecorbeau was a leader among the villagers
of Beaubassin, he and his family had shelter in a small but warm stable
where some of the officers' horses were quartered. Their goods were
stacked and huddled together in the open air, and Pierre and his father
cut boughs and spread blankets to cover them from the weather. In the
warm straw of the stable, hungry and homesick, the children clung about
their mother and wept themselves to sleep. But they were fortunate
compared with many of their acquaintances, whom Pierre could see
crowded roofless about their fires, in sheltered hollows and under