"Anyhow," said he, "my mother's half English; so you're not alone. We're
going to make a big fight for it. We've stood it as long as we can. But
we're friends in this, aren't we, Ferrol?"
There was a pause, in which Ferrol sipped his whiskey and milk, and
continued dressing. He set the glass down, and looked towards the open
window, through which came the smell of the ripe orchard and the
fragrance of the pines. He turned to. Lavilette at last and said, as he
fastened his collar:
"Yes, you and I are friends, Nic; but I'm a Britisher, and my people have
been Britishers since Edward the Third's time; and for this same Quebec
two of my great-grand-uncles fought and lost their lives. If I were
sound of wind and limb I'd fight, like them, to keep what they helped to
get. You're in for a rare good beating, and, see, my friend--while I
wouldn't do you any harm personally, I'd crawl on my knees from here to
the citadel at Quebec to get a pot-shot at your rag-tag-and-bobtail
'patriots.' You can count me a first-class enemy to your 'cause,' though
I'm not a first-class fighting man. And now, Nic, give me a lift with my
coat. This shoulder jibs a bit since the bear-baiting.
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