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?"
Pierre became polite at once; so surely does courtesy find courtesy.
"Sir," said he, taking off his hat, "I have come after my father's oxen,
those beasts yonder, which strayed back here in the night. This was our
home yesterday."
Pierre's voice quivered as he spoke these last words.
The officer looked very much interested.
"Certainly," said he, "you shall have your oxen. We don't take anything
that doesn't belong to us. But tell me, why is not this your home to-day?
Why have you all burnt down your houses and run away? We are the true
friends of all the Acadians.
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