University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE PARTING.

The first emotion of the young officer, on springing
to his feet and beholding the warlike stir around
him, was such as naturally would have arisen in
the breast of an ambitious and daring young man
on finding himself, after so long subduing his native
ardour of spirit beneath the assumed gravity
of a monk, in the midst of a camp, himself a soldier.
He involuntarily carried his hand to his sword hilt
as these stirring sounds of war struck his ears, and
his eyes sparkled with pride and pleasure. With
these feelings were mingled, however, emotions of
sadness, as he thought of his separation from Eugenie.
His brow grew melancholy at the reflection,
and his whole manner became at once depressed.

“How now, my young sir?” said the general,
advancing and taking his hand; “you look as if
you were sighing for your monk's garb again.
Your outward man showed the priest last night,

while your look was martial enough; and now your
face would canonize you. Well, 'tis sad, this parting
of lovers, no doubt, and the briefer the better
for both, methinks. But, if you choose to prolong
the melancholy bliss, why, I suppose I must give
you command of the escort for an hour's march.
You will then resign to Horsford. I cannot well
spare for a longer time one who will be my most
efficient aiddecamp. Old Horsford, my stout sergeant,
who, like John Rogers, has a wife and nine
small children, which are somewhere about Tappan
Zee, will be a safe and trusty escort till my good
lady relieves him of his charge. You may rest secure,
and not fear a rival in him. He thinks more
of his old dame—about whom, if you give ear, and,
faith! if you don't give ear, he will wind you long
stories—than of the prettiest lass for whom youthful
knight ever put lance in rest. But we must
mount; I see the columns are marching out of
camp.”

“How large a detachment have you given this
immaculate sergeant, general?”

“Twelve men; and Horsford is worth five more;
as many as I can spare on this duty, but enough
to awe any parties of the country-people they may
fall in with. Here now comes the champion of
your ladylove, booted and spurred. Well, Sergeant
Horsford,” he continued, addressing a stout-built,
hale, and hearty-looking old man of some sixty
winters, which had freely frosted his bushy hair,
and with a good-natured, bluff physiognomy, lighted
by a twinkling blue eye, “are your men ready?”

“All ready, general,” replied the sergeant, paying
the military salute; “every man stands with
his hand on the bridle, prepared to mount at the
word.”

“They shall not wait long for it. Eugenie, my

daughter,” he said, approaching the door of his tent,
“have you yet unsealed those bright eyes, that have
done so much mischief, and are likely to do more?
Horsford, man,” he added, with natural humour,
speaking aside to the stout sergeant, “you will need
a treble breastplate, and the vision of your wife
and children multiplied before those round eyes of
yours full thirtyfold at least, to keep your heart
true to your dame when once you put eyes on your
charge.”

The old sergeant shrugged his shoulders, winked,
and twisted his mouth to one side by way of reply.
At the same moment the curtain of the tent was
drawn aside, and the lovely guest of General Montgomery
was preparing to step forth, when, meeting
the stare of old Horsford, and seeing the general
and her lover, she dropped the screen and shrunk
back into the tent. The latter, however, sprung
forward and arrested her hand as she was releasing
her hold on the curtain, and said, earnestly, yet
with all a lover's tenderness,

“Nay, dearest Eugenie, there are none you need
shrink from, unless,” he added, in a low voice, which
alone met her ear, “you would fly from me.”

As he spoke he raised the canvass and sought her
eyes by the faint light of the dawn. They expressed
mingled affection and reproof. Casting back
a glance, half apologetic, half pleading, towards his
superior officer, he dropped the curtain of the tent
and was alone with Eugenie. Folding her in his
arms, he pressed her to his heart in a lingering embrace.
They both felt they were taking a long,
perhaps a last farewell of each other. Neither
spoke, except with their eyes, which were full of
the strong language of the heart; his, burning with
the dark fire of his ardent feelings; hers, soft, lam
bent, and full of tenderness.

It would seem that lovers can see in one another's
eyes what is not so visible to the organs of ordinary
mortals, and that glances interchanged are
of more efficacy than words; such, at least, would
be the inference drawn from the parting interview
of Edward and Eugenie. At an hour when it would
be very naturally supposed that they must have had
a great deal to say, they stood gazing into each
other's eyes instead of making good use of their
time by making good use of their tongues.

For several moments they lingered in this lover-like
oblivion, their looks, as the romancers say,
speaking volumes, when their interview was interrupted
by the sudden roll of a dozen drums, the
shrill music of a score of fifes, the loud blast of a
bugle close without the tent, and the voice of General
Montgomery giving several military orders.
The next moment he lifted the curtain and entered
the tent.

“Come, my Petrarch and Laura, we are all in
motion. Your canvass bower, fair Eugenie, must
share the fate of war, and be stowed in the baggage-wagon,
though I have a mind to send it to
Rhinebeck, pitch it in my little garden, and dedicate
it as a temple to Dan Cupid. It shall hereafter
be put to no meaner use than Beauty's boudoir.
Suppose, for the present, I intrust it to your
knight for his especial benefit while in the army,
and leave its future consecration to his loyalty.
Now, Miss de Lisle,” he added, affectionately
taking her hand, “I shall regard you as my own
daughter, whose happiness and interests, as such,
will be very dear to me. This evening you will
be at the residence of Colonel Olney, where you
will meet with Mrs. Montgomery, in whom you
will find both a mother and friend. Here is your
escort, Sergeant Horsford. He is a husband and

a father. I intrust you to him with confidence in
his care and attention. He already has his instructions.
Now, my dear child, God bless you!”

Affectionately embracing her as he spoke, the
excellent and noble-hearted man took his leave,
mounted his horse, which a dragoon had been holding
at the door of the tent, and, waving his hand
to his new aiddecamp, said,

“In three hours I shall be happy to learn from
your lips that my lovely protégé is full ten miles
on her way to Trois Rivières.”

Then courteously kissing his ungloved hand to
Eugenie, he galloped off, surrounded by several
officers, to join his forces, which were already
filing through the forest towards the main road.

“Sergeant, we are ready to ride,” said the young
aid.

“Bring up that bay pony,” cried Horsford to one
of his command. “Here, now, my young lady, be
as genteel an animal as the queen would wish to
ride—not the queen that is, but that was, being as
we don't acknowledge king nor queen till they give
us the rights we are fightin' for,” added the sergeant,
correcting his habitual colonial phrase to
suit his new and yet awkward American politics.
“To be sure it carries no side-saddle, seeing Congress
don't supply the camp with such womanish
gear; but there is a good bearskin strapped over a
trooper's saddle, with the two ears left sticking
straight up to hold on by, which may and may not
answer, all depending whether you be a good horse-woman
or be not. The pony, too, be een-a-most
as easy as a skiff sailin' on the Hudson in a calm.
You could carry a mugful of cider all the way to
Montreal on the crupper and not spill a drop. But,
if you don't like the bearskin, why, I can rig a pillion
behind my own saddle, and you can ride on

there, as wife and my oldest gal has done to church
many a Sunday.”

“I think, my worthy soldier,” said Eugenie,
smiling at this proposition, “I shall prefer the
pony. So, if you will assist me to my saddle, I
will not long hinder your journey.”

“That will I, for I'd like to be back to the army
before they are like to have a brush with the enemy,”
said the rough soldier, extending his arms as
if he was about to lift a child from the ground.

“No, no, good Hosmer, not so,” said the young
lady, laughing and retreating.

“Horsford, young miss, not Hosmer.”

“Then, worthy Horsford, I should prefer the aid
of this camp-stool.”

“Or my arm rather, Eugenie,” said Edward,
who had been busily arranging, for the greater
comfort and security of the rider, the rude saddle
destined for Eugenie, advancing and taking her
hand as he spoke. Gracefully bending as he received
a smiling permission, he received her tiny
foot in his right palm. Lightly pressing her hand
upon his shoulder, she was elevated to the saddle
with case, and with much less exertion than even
the rough strength of Sergeant Horsford would
have demanded.

“By my honour, but that was cleverly done,”
said the sergeant, when he beheld her seated firmly
in the saddle; “these youths have the advantage
of gray hairs. I must larn my eldest da'ter to
mount Biddy in this shorthand fashion. Now,
young gentleman, or rather major,” he added, respectfully
raising his hand to his cap, “we will
up and ride if it be your pleasure.”

The young officer mounted a fiery and beautifully-formed
animal, presented to him by General
Montgomery, and took his station by the bridle of

his fair companion. Leaving the ground so lately
teeming with life, but now silent and deserted, they
turned into the main road, where the detachment
or escort which was to attend Eugenie was drawn
up, the men sitting immoveably on their horses, as
if forming a group of equestrian statues.

“Forward! Trot!” cried the sergeant, as he
rode to the head of his troop, after placing his
charge in the centre. Obeying the command, with
a simultaneous movement the squadron of horse
moved forward at a round trot, and soon left the
place of encampment far behind.

During the ride the lovers, as doubtless they
should now be denominated, had uninterrupted
opportunities for communication, not only with
their eyes, but their tongues, the afterguard or rear
division of the escort keeping, by the command of
the young officer, some paces in their rear, “lest,”
he said, “their heavy tramp, and the clattering and
ringing of their accountrements, should alarm the
spirited pony upon which the young lady was
mounted, and endanger her safety;” while, by
riding very slowly, he managed to keep the van
some distance in advance.

The conversation of lovers is, proverbially, only
interesting to the parties themselves; and as that
of ours cannot challenge an exception, it will not,
if detailed, contribute materially to the entertainment
of the reader. We shall, therefore, leave our
fair reader, if, perchance, these ephemeral pages
are honoured by the glances of bright eyes or
graced by the fingers of beauty, to imagine all the
sweet phrases, the endearing epithets, the tender
looks, the love-full eyes, now cast down and tearful,
now sparkling with hope; the soft hand-pressure,
the agitated bosom, the heavy sighs, and all
the other concomitants that go to make up a genuine

tête-à-tête between a young lover and his mistress
on the eve of separation. The separation of
Edward and Eugenie was rendered still more painful,
as it was to be for an indefinite time, as one
of them was about to mingle in the dangers of the
battle-field, and the other to seek a distant home
among strangers.

“There is Champlain, major,” said Sergeant
Horsford, reining up and falling alongside of them,
and interrupting a very interesting scene; “when
we arrive there we shall have marched good fifteen
miles before breaking fast.”

“Fifteen miles!” repeated the officer, with surprise,
looking in the direction of the hamlet, which
lay close to the water's edge, not half a mile before
them; “so far already! I thought we had not
come a third of the distance.”

The old man looked quizzically as he glanced
at the youthful pair, but respectfully replied,

“There's been a time, major, when I've thought
the Monday morning cock had crowed at midnight.
These lasses play the devil with old Forelock's
sandglass.”

“I must, then, return, Horsford. Ride by this
lady's bridle, and leave it not during your march.”
Then drawing near Eugenie, he said, despondingly,

“Here we must part, sweet Eugenie; when
next we meet, may it be to part no more.”

He took her hand as he spoke, and, as if reluctant
to resign it, continued to ride by her side till
the escort entered the village, when, hastily pressing
it to his lips, he cried, “God bless you! God
bless you!”

Turning his horse's head, he dashed his spurs
into his flanks, and, followed by two dragoons as a
body-guard in his progress through a hostile country,

he rode rapidly back in the opposite direction;
while Eugenie, hastily veiling her face to conceal
her emotion, rode forward with a heavy heart,
feeling alone and desolate in the world.

From the moment Eugenie met the eyes of the
youthful monk in the oratory of the convent St.
Therese until they parted in the village of Champlain,
love, however disguised by the thousand
little artifices by which maidens try to conceal its
existence, as deep, pure, and devoted love as woman
is capable of feeling, possessed her heart. The
depth and purity of her attachment insensibly produced
a corresponding sentiment in the breast of
the young soldier, till at length an affaire du cœur,
as he termed it, begun in the spirit of gallantry and
a romantic disposition, undemably assumed the
elevated and hallowed character of love, and he
yielded his heart to the spell with which he had
dared to trifle. Neither had yet spoken of love,
yet both felt a conviction that they loved and were
beloved with an ardour of affection allied to devotion.

The young aiddecamp dashed along the road,
on his return to the army, at a rate that kept his
attendants busily employed in keeping up with
him with their less active horses. He flew over
hill and through hollow like a lover who is hastening
to meet, rather than one who has just parted
from, his mistress. Some epicurean traveller, who
lived in those days when four-wheeled carriages
were drawn by quadrupeds, has observed and left
on record, that the most delightful of all sensations
is that which is experienced when one is whirled
over a turnpike in a mailcoach. Doubtless this
worthy gentleman laboured under the infliction of
the gout, rheumatism, or some one of the other ills
that render cavaliers who have attained to a certain

period of life peculiarly uncomfortable, and especially
unfitted for equestrian exploits, otherwise
he would have substituted in that age a fleet horse
for that aldermanic mode of locomotion, a mail-coach;
in the present day he would have rejoiced
in a railroad car. Alas! that he should have been
born a generation too soon to have enjoyed the
quintessence of his sensation of delight!

The deep gloom weighing upon the heart of
the young horseman gradually lightened, and his
spirits rose with the rapid motion of the blooded
animal he rode; and, partaking of the full excitement
and exhilaration of his situation, he soon felt
a joyousness and elasticity of spirits with which
the vanity of Eugenie would have been little flattered:
for genuine lovers estimate the degree of
each other's affection, especially during an absence,
by the length of visage they exhibit, and the depth
and quantity of their sighs. There is a story told
of a sentimental maiden, who preserved her tears
in a crystal lachrymatory during her lover's absence
over sea, and, on his return from a year's voyage,
displayed it, with great exultation, nearly filled.
The lover, in defence, and, as we are told, to prove
the equal sincerity of his love, presented her with
a demijohn which, at the request of some virtuoso,
he had filled from the Lake Asphaltites. But this
digression is somewhat irrelevant to our purpose;
lovers, and not the tears which measure their love,
being the subject in which our pen is enlisted.

It was noon when the horseman, moving at a
slower pace than the agitation of his feelings had
hitherto allowed him to adopt, arrived at the summit
of a ridge over which the road passed, and
in the valley beyond beheld the army he was hastening
to join. The St. Lawrence was in sight on
his right, its bosom relieved here and there by a

merchant-ship seeking the ocean; small vessels,
in greater numbers, sailing in different directions,
and numerous batteaux plying among the fields of
ice, which, borne seaward by the strong current,
momently threatened to crush them, with their adventurous
boatmen, to atoms. More than a league
distant, their long black lines relieved against the
snow, his eyes followed the army as in their march
they wound through the valley, diminished by the
distance to mere pigmies, and rendered still more
insignificant by that contrast which always affects
man or his works when surrounded by the stupendous
works of God.

The young man watched them until, to his imagination,
they appeared to be only a horde of insects.
Curling his lip contemptuously as this idea
became more impressive, he ironically mused,

“There crawl human pride and power! Long
lines of insects moving, as I have seen their prototypes,
to battle. To the eye, where is the distinction?
To the reason, where? Which the immortal?
The emmet performs its allotted duty, and
each unit in yonder black mass does no more.
Both alike spring from the earth and return to it.
One appears no more useful than the other, its
pursuits neither more dignified nor more earnest.
Both levy armies and join battle: each army slays
its thousands with a great noise, and the conqueror
emmet or conqueror man is alike cruel to his victims.
It may be that the nobler being will stand
forth in the next world in his destined superiority;
but here, man is as the brutes that perish. I, too,
have a part to perform in this silly pageant of life,
and must masquerade like my fellow-emmets. So,
forward, and let me fling myself into the vortex
that awaits me.”

Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped down the

hill, and soon arrived at the main body of the forces,
and joined the staff of General Montgomery.

“Welcome, my knight-errant,” said the general,
as the young officer reined up his reeking horse by
his side; “if you are as zealous in war as you have
proved in love, you will yet win a name men will
pronounce with pride. How left you our lovely
protégé?”

“Well, general,” replied the aiddecamp, compelling
his still spirited horse to move along at the
moderate gait preserved by the well-trained charger
on which the chief was mounted.

“What grove or fountain between this and Trois
Rivières has been made sacred by beholding the
parting scene between Hector and Andromache
this morning?” asked the general, pointedly.

“No other grove than the swords and plumes of
half a score of dragoons; no other fountain than a
few dropping crystals.”

“Ha! art given to the melting mood, my Paris?”

“They were not the tears of Paris, but of Helen.”

“'Tis fortunate,” said the general, laughing, “that
the walls of Quebec do not contain your Helen, lest
it should prove a second Troy. I assure you, I
have no ambition to become a modern Achilles.
But a truce to this bantering, my dear Burton.
Allow me, Captain M`Pherson,” he added, turning
to an officer near him, “to make you acquainted
with my friend and aid, Major Burton.”

The two officers bowed, and, shortly after, falling
a little in the rear of their superior, entered into
conversation.

That night the small army of invaders encamped
a few miles above Quebec, where General Montgomery
received fresh advices from the second division
of such a nature that he was induced to
await its arrival. The seventh day after the departure

of his messenger, whose adventures we
have followed, Colonel Arnold arrived at Point
Levi, opposite Quebec. Disappointed, by the activity
of Sir Guy Carleton and Colonel M`Lean, in
surprising the place, he crossed the St. Lawrence
after a perilous passage, and joined General Montgomery
at his encampment at Aux Trembles,
twenty miles above Quebec. From this point the
combined forces, now constituting a formidable
army, directly marched to lay siege to that important
citadel, the possession of which was the key
to both Canadas.