the little hillside copses. The night was raw and showery, and there
was not houseroom in Beausejour for a tenth part of the homeless Acadians.

By dawn Pierre was astir. He rose from his cramped position under a
manger, stretched himself, shook the chaff and dust from his thick black
hair, and stepped out into the chilly morning. The cattle had been hobbled
and allowed to feed at large, but the boy's eye soon detected that his pet
yoke had disappeared. Nowhere on Beausejour could they be found, and he
concluded they must have freed themselves completely and wandered back
home. Pierre had no reason to fear the English, but he dreaded lest the
troops should take a fancy to make beef out of his fat oxen; so, after
a word to his father, he set out for the burned village. Early as it was,
however, Beausejour was all astir when he left, and he wondered what the
soldiers were so busy about.

As Pierre approached the smoldering ruins of his home, an English soldier,
standing on guard before the tents in the orchard, ordered him to halt.
Pierre didn't understand the word, but he comprehended the tone in which
it was uttered. He saw his beloved oxen standing with bowed heads by
the water trough, and he tried to make the soldier understand that he
had come for those oxen, which belonged to him. On this point Pierre
spoke very emphatically, as if to make his French more intelligible
to the Englishman. But his struggles were all in vain. The soldier
looked first puzzled, then vacuously wise; then he knit his brows and
looked at the oxen. Finally he laughed, took Pierre by the elbow, and
led him toward one of the tents. At this moment a pleasant-faced
young officer came out of the tent, and, taking in the situation
at a glance, addressed Pierre in French:

"Well, my boy," said he, kindly, "what are you doing here so early?"