University of Virginia Library

BOOK I.
THE SIEGE OF QUEBEC.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE MONK.

The bells of a ruined monastery in the vale of
Chaudiere were chiming the hour of evening service
at the close of a cold windy day in the month
of November, seventeen hundred and seventy-five,
when a single traveller, in the garb of a Roman
Catholic priest, appeared on the skirts of a forest,
that, sacred from the invading ploughshare or the
axe of the woodman, stretched many leagues into
the province of Maine. His steps were slow and
heavy, as if he had travelled many a weary mile
of the vast wilderness behind him; and, when the
north wind howled at intervals through the wood,
he drew his garment still closer about his person,
and bore himself with a sturdier step; but, nevertheless,
his slight frame and vacillating limbs did
not promise to withstand for a much longer space
such rude assaults.

Although faint with fasting and toilworn with
long travel, yet the sound of the convent bell, as it
swept past him on the wind, infused additional
vigour into his limbs; and roused to renewed exertions,
with an exclamation of joy he hastened
forward to a slight eminence which rose in his
path. From its summit he beheld a prospect that
fully rewarded him for all the hardships he had endured
in his lonely pilgrimage through the wilderness.
Beneath him lay a secluded and pleasant
valley, about a league in breadth, guarded from the
wintry winds that swept the highlands, by a
chain of hills, wooded to their tops with forest trees,
the lingering foilage of which was dyed with every
hue of the rainbow. Through its bosom the
Chaudiere flowed, in a thousand romantic windings,
towards a scarcely visible opening in the range
of hills to the north, through which to pour its tributary
waters into the St. Lawrence.

Leaning on his staff, his eyes expressive of that
delight experienced by the true admirer of Nature
when contemplating her lovelier features, he lingered
a moment to trace the graceful meanderings
of the river, now wheeling peacefully around the
base of the hill on which he stood, its glassy breast
unruffled by the slightest zephyr; now gurgling
and rippling among protruding rocks, and now
rushing with velocity to the brink of a precipice,
then, with a roar that rose distinctly to his ears,
plunging into a foaming basin, from which ascended
a cloud of snowy vapour, catching from the
beams of the setting sun, as it sailed above the valley,
a thousand brilliant and varied hues. Again
his eye would follow it, gliding with the stillness
of a lake into the depths of a forest, in the recesses
of which it was lost to the sight until it reappeared
in a glen full half a league beyond, through

which it rushed in a hundred cascades brilliantly
white with foam and dancing spray; then, separating
in a broader part of the valley, it formed numerous
verdant islands, rich in summer with the
greenest verdure, and clothed with woods so ornamentally
disposed in clumps and groves by the
hand of Nature, that art would have diminished
rather than added to their picturesque beauty. On
one of these islands, either of which the father of
poetry might have chosen for the abode of Calypso,
the traveller discovered the convent, whose vesper-bell—the
harbinger of civilization to his ears—
had infused new vigour into his frame. Besides
this edifice, a few peasants' cottages sprinkled here
and there through the valley, and surrounded by
small enclosures of cultivated ground, the harvests
long since gathered, were the only indications to
him of the presence of fellow-beings.

After gazing, until twilight rendered distant objects
dim and uncertain, upon the scene so unexpectedly
presented to his eyes, long familiar only
with the gloomy grandeur of pathless forests, occasionally
relieved by the hut of their savage denizen,
the traveller gathered the folds of his robe
beneath his belt, and grasped his staff resolutely;
then for a moment fixing his eyes upon the towers
of the island convent as the last chime of the bells
ceased to echo among the hills, he said, as he prepared
to descend a rude path, if the scarcely visible
track left by the hunter or beasts of prey may
thus be denominated,

“There shall I find what I most need, a night's
repose; and, if all tales be true, good and substantial
cheer withal; for the reverend fathers, while
they have cure of the souls of their flocks, are not
wont to neglect their own bodily comforts.”

Thus speaking, he set forward with an active

step, and, following the precipitous path down the
face of the hill, after a perilous and rapid descent
gained the river at a point where it was confined
in a deep channel by rugged cliffs. Entering a
sheep-track on the verge of the tumultuous stream,
he walked vigorously on, at one time descending
precipices, at another crossing intervals strewn
with autumnal leaves, with the river, broken from
its confinement, gliding noiselessly by within reach
of his staff. At length he entered the wood in
which the stream had become lost to his eye from
the brow of the hill; and as the twilight was fast
thickening into night, he quickened his pace and
traversed its gloomy labyrinths at a rate his former
apparent fatigue did not by any means prom
ise. As he emerged into the open valley through
which the river flowed, studded with islands, the
tower of the convent was visible half a mile distant,
with a light faintly glimmering in one of its windows.
The path was now more trodden, and the
signs of careful husbandry were visible around him.
Passing through a narrow lane bounded by evergreen
hedges, a few minutes' walk conducted him
to a peasant's cot, situated on the banks of the
river, and nearly opposite the monastery. He
paused a moment in the shadow of a tree which
cast its branches over the roof, and surveyed the
humble dwelling.

It was one story high, constructed of wood,
neatly whitewashed, and, like most Canadian houses
of the class, with a single chimney rising in the
centre. A garden adjoined it, and, although not
arranged with horticultural precision, it appeared to
have abounded, during the proper season, with
every variety of fruit and culinary vegetable peculiar
to the climate; while here and there a small
cluster of flowers, and the further display of floral

taste in the ornamental appendages of one or two
vases placed on an humble portico before the door,
betrayed the presence of a passion usually found
alone in higher walks of life, but which is a natural
attribute of the lighthearted and romantic peasantry
of the Canadian valleys. A bright fire blazed in
the huge stone chimney, shedding its cheerful light
throughout the apartment, and flashing, at intervals,
through the window upon the person of the traveller.
A young and very handsome female was arranging
a small round table in the centre of the
room for the evening meal, while three or four ruddy-cheeked
boys, with one little girl, were watching
with very decided infantile epicureanism the tedious
process of the baking of half a score of brown
cakes on a griddle. The table, with its snowy
cloth, the shining dresser, the well-scoured white
floor, and a certain tidy air reigning over the whole
interior of the cottage, combined with the picturesque
mantelet and gay headdress, à la Fran
çaise, of the female, with the group of children,
decreasing, from the eldest progressively downward,
half a head in height, showed, altogether, the happy
mother, the conscious beauty, and the frugal
housewife.

The traveller sighed as he gazed on this humble
scene of domestic happiness. “Here, at least, is
the abode of peace and contentment, if such there
be on earth,” he said, half aloud; “the voice of
criminal ambition never reaches this happy threshold.
Alike ignorant of the vices and pleasures of
the world, the highest aim of its inmates is faithfully
to fulfil their duty to God and their neighbour.
Their errors are those of thought rather
than of action. Never tempted, they are guiltless.
With light hearts and clear consciences they enjoy
the present with thankfulness, and look to the

future without dread. Why is my destiny so opposite?
Why am I tortured with ambitious aspirations,
and mocked, sleeping and waking, with visions
of power and empire, which, when I would
grasp them, elude me? Delusive temptations,
pointing me to the temple's pinnacle that my fall
may be far and sure! But, stand or fall, I must
fulfil my destiny, and obey that restless spirit within
which bids me onward. But, alas! high as I
may climb, the time may come when, perchance,
I shall sigh to exchange lots with the veriest hind
that ever whistled behind a plough.”

His half-spoken thoughts were interrupted by a
footstep approaching from behind, and a manly
voice at the same time saluting him respectfully
in the Canadian patois.

“Good even, father! Thou art somewhat late
to cross the water to-night. St. Claude locks fast
at vespers, and no key but a golden one, which seldom
hangs at a priest's girdle, can turn back her
rusty bolt till the third cock-crowing.”

The monk started slightly at the unexpected
presence and address of the speaker, and then
courteously replied to his salutation, at the same
time fixing his eyes upon him with a keen and
searching glance, as if he would read the inner
man by his outward seeming.

This second individual, who was now visible by
the light which shone brightly through the cottage
window full upon his person, was tall and finely
moulded, and clothed in the ordinary dress of the
Canadian peasant. This consisted of a gray capote,
or loose surtout, reaching to the knee, confined at
the waist by a gay sash of mingled green and scarlet
colours, and closely buttoned to the throat, exposing
to advantage the breadth and massive proportions
of his chest. His head was surmounted

by the bonnet bleu, which he wore with a jaunting
air, and moccasins of undressed moose-hide covered
his feet. A short French fowlingpiece, that
he carried carelessly in one hand, a string of wild
game held in the other, and a large brown dog of
the Newfoundland breed, which followed at his
heels, completed the sum of his attendants, equipments,
and costume.

“The holy fathers are at their supper now,”
continued the peasant, “and old Homfroy careth
little to leave his snug chimney side to open gates
after the stars begin to twinkle. Jaquette, I see,
by the bright blaze on the hearth, has spread the
table. So enter, good father, and bless my roof
and grace my board, though it will ill compare
with that of thy refectory. Nevertheless, it shall
ne'er be said habitan François Benoît let vicaire
or novice pass his door or sail his ferry without
first blessing and breaking bread at his board.
Thou art weary, father; but a comfortable chair,
one of these ducks well broiled, and a cup of Jaquette's
wine, of her own vintage, to moisten it,
will cheer thee up, and make thee lean less heavily
on thy staff.”

“Thank you, thank you, friend; I would say, my
son,” replied the monk, who still retained his original
position beneath the tree; “but time presses,
and I must cross the water before I sleep. I will,
nevertheless, accept your pious offer and taste your
good cheer, for I have travelled far; and afterward,
with what speed you may, ferry me over to yonder
island, if, as I conjecture from its position, it is
where the learned Father Etienne exercises spiritual
control.”

“Then, father,” said the peasant, observing him
more closely, “thou art not of the brotherhood of
St. Claude o' the Island? And, now thou hast not

thy face so muffled in thy cowl, I see thou art a
stranger; for each one of the priests' faces, and
they are few and old, is as well known to me, saving
their reverences, as my own, seeing that I have
pulled an oar face to face with them all, since Jaquette
and I were married, which will be five
years come Michaelmas. But if thou visitest the
monastery and knowst Father Etienne, he will give
thee a good welcome either with Gascon wines or
clerkly Latin, venison steaks or homilies, as will
best chime with thy humour and his own.”

As he finished speaking he advanced to the door
of his dwelling, followed by the monk. They were
met on the threshold by the young wife, who, hearing
the voice of her husband outside, opened it for
the purpose of flying into his arms; for the attitude
in which she was arrested by the sight of the stranger
as she was crossing the threshold, and the conscious
blush which increased her beauty, sufficiently
betrayed this to have been the wifely mode in
which she intended to welcome him home after a
whole day's absence on the hills.

“Sacré Sainte Marie, Jaquette!” exclaimed the
husband, good-humouredly; “be thy wits fled because
a holy priest deigns to bless us with his presence?
Give me a kiss! No? Nay, then, if
thou'rt so coy, wife, before a holy monk, because,
forsooth, he carries youth in his eye, he shall give
thee the kiss of sisterhood which is his right to
bestow.”

“The father, but not thee, François, in such a
presence,” said the blushing dame; and, as she
spoke, she presented, with great simplicity and reverence,
her mantling cheek to the salutation of the
youthful priest, who, apparently surprised, but not
disconcerted, gracefully passed his arm half round
her waist, and, gently drawing her towards him,

pressed, instead, her lips with his own, and with
rather more warmth than beseemed his cloth and
the self-denying vows of his order, enjoining upon
its members to flee oscula mulierum.

“Beshrew me, father,” said the husband, “there
was much unction in that reverend salutation. I
would swear, saving your reverence's presence,
thou wert a Benedictine, and hadst a wife of thine
own to practise on; for, verily, thou bestowest the
kiss of sisterhood with such familiar grace as is
not learned in St. Claude's convent walls at least.”

The monk smiled, and accepted a chair which
his host, while speaking, had placed for him at the
table, already covered with the smoking viands
constituting the usual evening meal. François,
Jaquette, and the little epicures before mentioned,
having also taken their accustomed places, and the
dog seated himself on his haunches by the chair of
the youngest with a wistful look, one of the children,
impatient and hungry, thrust his little fist into
the plate of cakes, when his mother cried out, reprovingly,

“Fy, fy! Martin! Where are the child's manners
and religion! Dost know the holy father has
not yet said grace? Wouldst eat food unblessed
like a wild Indian, child?”

At this hint the child drew back abashed, casting
his eyes obliquely up into the face of the holy
man whose presence had placed such an ill-timed
injunction upon his appetite. The priest himself
appeared suddenly embarrassed; but, after a moment's
pause, and at the request of François that he
would say a grace over their food, he dropped his
face within his cowl and muttered something scarcely
audible; then, patting little Martin on his curly
head, he said, cheerfully,

“Now eat away, my little man; your food is as
holy as words of grace can make it.”

The head and face of the monk, as he sat at the
frugal board of the peasant, with his cowl thrown
back, was, for the first time, plainly visible. His
forehead was high, and cast in an intellectual mould;
the upper portion expressed dignity and firmness,
while the full arched brow indicated a man who
thought much and intensely. It was the forehead
of a scholar. His eyes were black and piercing;
when animated they were full of dark fire, but
when in repose they were softer than the soft eye
of woman. His nose would have been Grecian
but for a slight irregularity, perceptible only in
profile. The nostrils were firm, thin, and remarkable
for dilating with every emotion. His mouth,
when relieved by a smile, wore an expression of
great sweetness, but then a voluptuous repose
dwelt upon his under lip nearly approaching to
sensuality. From the flexibility of his lips, chiselled
with the accuracy of sculpture, and their habitual
contradictory expression—the upper being
short, thin, and curling with sarcasm or pressed
close to the other with determination, the under
round, full, beautifully formed, and glowing with
the passion of the voluptuary—his mouth possessed
the power of expressing, in the superlative degree,
every passion with which he was agitated. It was
beautiful or deformed, as love or hate, scorn or
pity, ruled there in their turns. It might have
been the fairest feature in the face of an angel or
the most fearful in that of a demon. His chin, so
far as it was visible, was full, square, and massive,
without being heavy, and the contour of his face was
slightly angular rather than oval, to which form it
inclined. His hair was dark and abundant; his
complexion a pale olive, but somewhat browned by

recent and unwonted exposure. His person, so
far as it could be seen by the habit he wore, was
slightly but elegantly formed, and rather below
than above the common height. Although redeemed
from effeminacy by the firm mouth and
chin, the manly and strongly intellectual forehead,
and the unsubdued fire of his flashing eyes, his
whole appearance was so youthful that he did not
seem to be more than eighteen years of age,
though closer observation would have made him,
perhaps, two or three years older. His address
was easy, his language pure and elegant, and his
bearing affable and courtly.

The honest peasant having terminated his observations
on the appearance and manners of his guest,
as from time to time he raised his eyes to survey
him during the meal, was so struck with his extreme
youth (which, united with the beauty of his features
and his fine eyes, also made an impression
upon the fair Jaquette deeper than she would have
been willing François should have known) that he
at length felt some curiosity to learn the nature of
the business that called so young a priest into
that remote valley, and especially to the quiet monastery
of St. Claude. But François was born a
degree north of New-England, and suppressed an
inquiry having no better object in view than simply
the gratification of his curiosity. Wishing to
hold, nevertheless, some conversation with his
guest, he laid his spoon beside his thrice-emptied
dish, and reverently, yet with the frank and ingenuous
air, as remote from servility as from forwardness,
characteristic of the Canadian peasant, said,

“Thou hast eaten full fairly, father. My homely
entertainment is but an ill match for an appetite
sharpened on the hills by a north wind, as I wot
thine has been.”

“How know you I am from the hills?” inquired
the monk, eying him fixedly.

“I saw thee coming down the southern ridge a
full half hour ere I met thee. I took thee for an
Indian hunter till thy long robe, blowing out, showed
thee to be a monk. But empty thy cup, father.
Jaquette, fill his reverence's cup. Nay, 'tis but a
mild wine, father, made from the pippin, which we
in the valley call the Chaudiere grape. Never better
was made in la belle France. I have drunk
Muscat, Burgundy, and Tent with old Homfroy, the
porter, a part of the perquisites, as he called it,
from his reverence's table on holydays, and I would
not give one round cup of Jaquette's pippin-wine
for a gross of such as the good fathers drink; Saint
Peter forgive me if I blaspheme in saying so!”

“The pretty Jaquette's wine is doubtless excellent,
worthy François; but wine suits neither my
constitution nor my habits, which are temperate.
Accept my thanks for your hospitality, and, if you
will, this piece of gold; and then take boat with
me, for it is already late, and I have far to travel
on the morrow.”

“Nay, father,” replied the peasant, putting aside
the hand of his guest, “François Benoît never took
money from priest for food or ferriage; freely thou
hast had meat and drink. Leave, then, thy blessing
on my roof, and I will place thee on the island in
the flap of a heron's wing.”

“If, then, worthy François, I may not requite
your hospitality,” said the monk, as the peasant
took his oars from the becket in which they were
used to hang along the ceiling, “my little friend
Martin, in consideration of a certain disappointment
caused by my presence at table, shall take
the coin in token of peace between us.”

As he spoke he placed the piece of gold in the

hands of Martin, bade Jaquette a smiling good-night
(without repeating the sisterly salutation with which
he had first met her), and followed François, who
with difficulty prevented his shaggy Newfoundland
companion from attending him, towards the
beach.

The night was clear and piercingly cold; the
stars sparkled like diamonds through the frosty atmosphere,
and the earth crackled beneath their
feet as they crossed the sward, on which the dew
became hoar as fast as it fell. The river glided
past with noiseless velocity, reflecting the stars in
its black, transparent bosom with wonderful precision.
The skiff, already afloat, was unmoored by
François, who sprung into it, followed by the monk,
and pushed it into the current, the movement producing
a slight decrepitating noise, as if the surface
of the river was already glazed with a thin
stratum of ice, yet so transparent as to be invisible.

“There will be a bridge of ice thrown across
the ferry to-night, father,” said François, bending,
as he spoke, to his slender oar. “If the edge of this
sharp frost don't get blunted before morning, a
pair of skates, with a proper groove and deep in the
iron, will be better for crossing from island to main
than the best wherry, or, for that matter, king's
war-ship, that ever sailed the salt sea. Hola! the
ice crackles under the bows as if we were cutting
through a pane of glass, and the air is as prickly
as if it hailed needles. Thou wilt find Father Etienne's
little closet, where he studies and prays,
with its two stoves, a blessed change from this
biting air. Methinks thou'rt clothed thinly. A good
bear's hide were worth twice thy robe of broadcloth.
Dost not feel the cold, father?” inquired the
talkative François of the silent monk, who sat in
the stern of the boat, wrapped to the eyes in his

cowl and gown, and apparently buried in profound
thought.

“No, my good friend; that is to say, my worthy
son,” he answered; “the night air is indeed piercing,
and my cloth garments but slight protection.
But I am accustomed to exposure, although I may
not boast your Herculean frame; neither have I
been nursed, like yourself, in the lap of a Canadian
winter. The cold increases indeed! A few more
strokes of the oar, François, and we shall reach
the island.”

They were now rapidly approaching a light in
one of the windows of the tower, and the walls of
the monastery, relieved against the sky, became
distinctly visible. Shooting into the dark shadow
of a huge tree overhanging the water, they had
nearly gained the beach, when a second light appeared
in a distant part of the convent, and, at the
same time, a single stroke of a bell rung with a
dull and startling sound from the tower.

“Do you see that light? What means it, Fran
çois?” asked the monk, quickly.

François, who looked one way while he pulled
another, rested on his sculls, and, turning his head,
looked steadily for an instant in the direction of the
convent, and then, resuming his oars, replied, “That
light is in Father Etienne's private chamber, and
the bell is a signal for the brotherhood to retire to
their cells. 'Twill be a hard matter to get admittance
to-night, father. After that light appears
in the window, not a cat moves about the convent
till morning. It burns there all night. His reverence
is a great student, and it hath been rumoured
his head will yet fill a cardinal's red cap. Well,
it's a great thing to be a clerkly scholar, to talk
Latin and Greek like one's mother tongue, and
more blessed to be a holy monk, and better still to

be a cardinal. But, then, my old mother—Heaven
and St. Peter send her sould safe out o' the pains o'
purgatory!—used to tell me that all these had their
troubles, and greater the man greater the sinner.
So I am content to remain simple François Benoît,
husband of Jaquette, and father of four rosy boys
and girls, and ferryman to St. Claude: the Virgin
be thanked for all blessings!”

François devoutly crossed himself as he concluded;
and the boat, at the same time, grating upon
the beach, he sprung out and secured it, saying,

“Here we are, father. I will see thee safe
under old Homfroy's charge, and then hasten back
to Jaquette and the little ones, for the ice will soon
get too stiff for my wherry to cut through.”

They had landed on a gentle slope, beneath a
large oak which far overhung the water, and, as
the monk discovered, directly in front of the principal
entrance to the convent. From the imperfect
survey of the edifice he was enabled to take as he
followed the rapid strides of the athletic waterman
to a wicket constructed in a large double door, or,
more properly, gate of the main building, he saw
that it was a long quadrangular structure of brick,
much dilapidated, with the ornamental superaddition
of an octagonal tower, surmounted by a cross,
rising from the roof at each extremity, both, however,
now falling into ruin. The pile was situated
in the midst of a lawn, surmounted by a natural
park of majestic forest trees, and on the broadest
part of the island, which was, nevertheless, at this
point so contracted that there remained only a narrow
esplanade between it and the river. It was
remarkably destitute of any, even the commonest
architectural ornaments with which the gentry
and better classes in the province were accustomed
at that period to decorate the exterior of

their dwellings. Altogether, it struck the monk
as gloomy and severe in its aspect, and not unsuited
to be the abode of men whose supposed austere
and ascetic habits were in keeping with an exterior
so forbidding.

His observations were at length interrupted by
the voice of François in altercation with the porter
of the convent for admission, while his knuckles,
which he made use of to enforce his appeal, rung
in the elastic atmosphere, as he struck against the
door, like oak ringing upon oak.

“Hoh, Homfroy! Wilt thou not answer? Open,
open! Wouldst thou have a holy father stand the
outer side o' thy gate in an air that would turn each
hair of thy gray beard into an icicle? Open, I say,
thou surly old dog, or, by the head of St. Peter, I
will break down thy wicket with my oars, and then
crack thy sulky pate! It's a priest, I say, a reverend
and holy monk, who craves admittance. If he
don't keep thee back in purgatory a twelvemonth
for every minute thou keepest him without, then
never trust me. Wilt not unbolt, old graybeard?
Open, I say!”

“Chut st, chut st! good François! Have I said
I will not open?” cried the old man at length, in a
cracked and deprecating, yet sufficiently ill-humoured
voice. “I did but stay to don my fur bonnet
and wrap my quilted gown about my old limbs.
The rheumatics are very bad on me o' nights now.
Misericorde! I can catch my death through a
keyhole, and it's a broad door thou wouldst have
me open! Thou art over hasty, lad, thou art over
hasty.”

While speaking he was slowly and reluctantly
undoing the fastenings on the inner side, and, as he
concluded, he turned the lock; then shielding his

shrinking but well-wrapped person behind the half-opened
door, he said hastily,

“Enter, father, enter speedily! Go thy ways,
François,” he added, attempting to close the gate
as the peasant was following the monk, “I will
not move bar nor bolt to let thee out. Then enter,
if thou wilt; but this night, at least, thou shalt not
sleep in thine own couch! Misericorde!” he
groaned, while he busied himself in securing the
door with its heavy chains and bolts, “this doing
and undoing of bolts and bars, these changes from
a warm snug room to the cold air of these wintry
nights, and this handling of cold iron, which sticks
to my fingers and takes the skin off with it! mon
Dieu! 'twill be the death of me. I'll to Father
Etienne this night—yet the passages are somewhat
chilly, and it waxes late—but of a surety will I tomorrow,
and resign the keys of mine office. If I
don't resign while I have the power, grim Death
will soon deprive me of it.”

Thus muttering and croaking, the old porter, himself
not less grim than the personage to whom he applied
this epithet, hobbled back into his domicilium.
This was a little room beside the door, where blazed
a cheerful fire, before which, on a few coals drawn to
the hearth, a posset-dish was set filled with a liquid
preparation, which, judging from the pleasant odour
diffused throughout the apartment, was duly seasoned
with spices. A comfortable, well-stuffed
armchair stood near it, as if the supervisor of the
tempting compound had just deserted it.

The monk and his attendant approached the fire,
the warmth of which both required. Their bodies
were chilled, and their limbs and features partially
benumbed by the intensity of the cold. The old
porter resumed his chair, and had become absorbed
in the posset-dish and its savoury contents, when

the former, having expelled the cold from his limbs,
requested him to inform the Father Etienne that a
stranger from a distant convent desired to see him
on private business of moment.

“François,” said old Homfroy, without looking
up, “that huge carcass of thine is now wellnigh
warmed through. Take, then, this lamp, and go
thou and deliver the father's message; and, peradventure,
thou mayst sleep beneath thine own roof
to-night.”

François took up the lamp with a laugh and left
the apartment. After the lapse of several minutes
he returned, saying that the Father Etienne desired
the stranger should be conducted to his closet.
The monk, who had been traversing the porter's
lodge with impatient strides during his absence,
now followed him with alacrity. He led
the way through a long passage paved with rough
stones, at the extremity of which they ascended a
narrow staircase to a gallery above, lined with
chambers or cells, many of them without doors, and
all apparently deserted. This gallery terminated
in a narrow door giving admission into the southern
tower of the monastery.

“There is the closet, father, where thou wilt
find him thou hast travelled so far to see,” said
François, in a suppressed voice; “knock, and thou
wilt find ready admittance. I will down and try
my wits against old Homfroy's sullenness for a
free passage forth. So I bid thee good-night, father,
and crave thy blessing.” As he spoke he removed
his bonnet and bent on one knee reverently
before the priest.

“Good-night, François, and take my blessing,
such as it is,” said the monk, laying his hand lightly
on the head of the suppliant. Then, abruptly

leaving him, he advanced to the extremity of the
gallery and knocked softly at the door.

“Enter, my son,” answered a deep voice
within.

The monk lifted the latch, and, entering, closed
the door.

François, after seeing the monk disappear within,
hastily descended the stairs and returned to the
porter, whom, after a little parleying, he prevailed
on to undo, for the second time that night, the bolts
and bars, whose every removal, he asseverated, was
an additional nail in his coffin.

“Have thee good-night, honest Homfroy; Jaquette
shall send thee apples for thy next posset,”
said the light-hearted peasant, as he issued from
the portal into the cutting night air.

Homfroy did not hear the latter part of Fran
çois's speech, having, in his terror of the rheumatics,
closed the door upon him before he had well
got over the threshold.

“Have thee good-night, is it?” he growled;
“may the night freeze thee (as it's like to me) if thou
bringest priest or layman more to disturb me after
vesper chime. If I get not the rheumatic twinge in
my left shoulder ere the sun rise, then I may shake
my keys at him with the scythe and hourglass.
This stranger, too,” he continued, placing the keys
in his girdle, “may take it into his head to choose
the frosty sky to ramble abroad in instead of a
warm Christian bed. The saints give him the
mind to stay within till morning. By St. Homfroy!
and that's my patron saint, I'll start bolt nor
bar more to-night if the holy pope himself and all
the cardinals were out crying to get in, or in crying
to get out!—the Virgin defend me that I should
say so!” he ejaculated, in an under tone, devoutly
making the sign of the cross with his keys upon

his breast, over which his long white beard flowed
in venerable profusion. Then re-entering his room,
he shut the door, and once more applied himself to
his posset, which was now poured out into a brown
mug, and standing on a little table drawn before
the fire, ready for that leisurely discussion that
such grateful potations at all times demand.

2. CHAPTER II.
THE CHEVALIER.

The closet into which the monk was admitted
was of small dimensions, and octangular like the
tower. Its bare walls exposed the rough surface
of the material composing them, but little improved
by the mason's trowel or the scale of the architect.
By day it received light from a single window,
placed at so great a height from the floor as to
preclude the necessity of a curtain, in which luxury
it was deficient. It was now lighted by a single
lamp suspended by an iron chain from the ceiling
to a level with the window, through which it
nightly shed its cheerful beams across the water, a
beacon to the belated traveller or lingering fisherman.

Beneath the lamp stood an oak table, groaning
under the weight of folios, quartoes, and bulky
manuscripts, a small place only being reserved
on one side, within the comfortable influence of a
stove, for the convenience of writing. The customary
apparatus for this pursuit was displayed in
the shape of a huge leaden standish, supported on

lion's claws, and perforated with several deep apertures
for pens; an antique black box of curious
workmanship containing wafers; and a massive
bronze urn, its lid punctured with innumerable
holes, containing sparkling black sand, while letter
paper, half-written epistles, stamps, seals, and other
appurtenances of a well-furnished escritoir, lay
scattered upon the table in very scholastic confusion.
Besides the table and lamp, a second stove
placed opposite the first, two or three substantial-looking
chairs, such as are found at the present
day in Canadian cottages, and a narrow cott or
berth in one angle of the room, completed the domestic
garniture of the apartment. Its professional
features were comprised in a brazen pillar standing
at the head of the cott, and supporting a small silver
crucifix; a marble basin containing holy water,
placed at the foot of the pillar, and a few pictures
of saints in the agonies of martyrdom. A handsome,
well-filled bookcase of dark-coloured wood,
curiously latticed in front, of ancient and elaborate
workmanship, standing on carved leopard's claws,
was also placed at one side of the window, and
within reach of the occupant's arm when seated at
the table. The room had an air of religious and
literary seclusion that captivated the monk, as, after
closing the door carefully behind him on his
entrance, he paused, without removing his cowl, to
survey for a moment both the apartment and its
inmate.

When François entered to inform him that a
stranger had arrived in the convent who sought a
private interview with him, the inmate of this little
chamber was seated at the table with a tract before
him, entitled De Servo Arbitrio, his mind
deeply absorbed in the disputation between that
archpolemist Martin Luther and the learned Erasmus.

On the departure of the peasant with orders
to conduct the visiter to his closet, he closed the
treatise, but still retained it in his hand, with his
forefinger placed habitually between the leaves, to
indicate that paragraph of the controversy where
he had been interrupted; and leaning his forehead
upon his hand, as if mentally pursuing the broken
train of argument, in this position he awaited the
appearance of his visiter. When the monk entered
he rose from his chair, and advanced a step
to meet him, presenting to his gaze a tall and commanding
person, a little inclined to corpulency, with
a noble and finely-shaped head, and a clear blue
eye, stern in its expression, and of that angular
shape often found in men of unusual decision of
character. His hair was light brown, somewhat
touched by time, and arranged after the fashion of the
vicaires or curés of the day; and, being worn away
about the temples, gave additional height to a forehead
naturally lofty. His brows were square and
fleshy, and only redeemed from intellectual heaviness
by the lustre of the clear eye that played beneath.
His mouth would have been handsome
but for an habitual firm compressure of the lips,
more in unison with the character of a soldier than
that of a scholar or priest. Instead of the monastic
habit, he wore a sort of clerical undress, consisting
of a dark-coloured woollen wrapper, well
lined and wadded, descending to the feet, and buttoned
closely from the waist to the throat, after the
fashion of the capote of the country.

“Bénédicité, brother!” he said, advancing with
a noble dignity of manner, and addressing the monk
after they had surveyed each other for a moment
in silence; “I give thee welcome to my rough
abode. But methinks thou art thinly clad to encounter
such a night as this. Remove thy cowl,

if so it please thee, and share the genial warmth of
my hearth. Afterward I will learn of thee, and
thou canst then tell me more at ease, the purpose of
this visit.”

The monk bowed courteously in reply, and, approaching
the stove, began to unloose the strings
of his cowl and gown, which he seemed to find
some difficulty in doing, while the priest continued,

“Thou art, if my guess misleads me not, for thy
garment bespeaks thee such, brother, a professè of
the community de Hopîtal-general de Quebec; and,
I doubt not, the long-expected bearer of letters from
the reverend vicar-general, touching the religious
and political condition of our church under the existing
provincial government?”

The monk, having at length succeeded in disengaging
the fastenings of his cowl and gown, without
replying now hastily cast them aside, and
stood before the astonished father no longer the
hooded and shuffling monk, but an elegant and
graceful youth, in a blue military surtout, with a
short sword by his side attached to a buff belt, in
which was stuck a pair of serviceable pistols.

“Reverend father, I am neither monk nor priest,
but a soldier of the patriot army, which, doubtless,
you have learned, ere now, is preparing to invade the
Canadas,” said the young stranger, in a firm, manly
tone. “In proof of my words and in token of my
good faith,” he added, fixing his eyes with a look
of intelligence on those of the priest, “I will repeat
the talisman that shall beget mutual confidence between
us. I have the honour, then, of addressing,
not simply the monk Etienne, but the Chevalier
de Levi.”

“Thou hast the true credentials, young sir,”
said the priest, assuming the air and manners of a
soldier and man of the world; “in me you see

that unfortunate chief who was once the leader of
a gallant army, and conqueror of those proud islanders
who now hold these fair lands. In this
peaceful garb,” he continued, with emotion, “you
behold the last general who drew blade for the
Canadas. Driven by a superior force from before
the walls of Quebec, which I had closely besieged,
I left that citadel in the hands of the enemy, and,
in despair of ever retrieving our national misfortunes,
buried my disgrace in the seclusion of a religious
life. But,” he added, with increasing energy,
pacing the apartment, “the servile oath of allegiance
to the British king I have never taken, nor
do my religious vows interfere with my patriotism.
I have ever been ready, when the time should arrive,
and, please God, that time is now at hand, to
aid in the removal of the invading Britons; and, if
need be, by the mass! I can still wield the sword
as I have done before in the same good cause.”

While the Chevalier de Levi spoke his eyes
flashed with a newly-awakened military spirit, and
his voice rung sharp and stern. But the momentary
enthusiasm passed away as quickly as it came;
and with a subdued manner, and in a tone more in
keeping with his habit and present profession, he
said, “May it please thee to be seated, fair sir, for
I would fain learn the news of which thou art the
bearer; thou art full young to be in the confidence
of generals-in-chief, and the bearer of messages of
invasion, as I doubt not thou art. Thou hast letters?”

“None, reverend father, or, rather, chevalier, for
it were best we both drop the monk in this conference.”

“Ha! how say you? no despatches? Come you
not from the American leader, Arnold?” demanded
the chevalier, sternly, and eying him suspiciously.

“I do, Sir Chevalier. He lies not fifteen leagues
hence, with an effective force of twelve hundred
men.”

“So near, and with such a force!” exclaimed
the chevalier, his eye rekindling; “by the mass! I
feel young again. In what direction is this army?”

“South.”

“South! Have you, then, effected a march
through the wilderness?”

“We have, chevalier, a long and tedious one.”

“'Tis nobly, gallantly done. What cannot be
accomplished with such brave men! Quebec,
thou shalt once more change masters! Colonel
Arnold communicated with me when the expedition
was first suggested; but that it should have
been already so far matured is beyond my fondest
hopes. When did you leave the camp?”

“Yesterday morning. Colonel Arnold sent me
from thence with verbal instructions only, requiring
me to use all diligence to reach this monastery,
where I should find the Chevalier de Levi in
the guise of the pious and learned Father Etienne,
who would forward me with all expedition on my
farther journey, providing both fast horses and faithful
guides.”

“Ha! and whither?” inquired the chevalier,
eagerly, at the same time cautiously turning the
key in the door of his study.

“To Trois Rivières. You are acquainted with
the destination of the army, chevalier?” he interrogated,
doubtingly.

“No. Your commanding officer, with whom I
have corresponded heretofore on other subjects,
informed me of the proposed expedition in a brief
note in cipher, at the same time soliciting my
co-operation and offering me a command. He
merely stated that he should march some time in

September, and would give me early notice of his
arrival in the vicinity of St. Claude. I therefore
look to you for those details of the expedition of
which I am ignorant.”

“There is little to narrate, save the history of a
tedious march of thirty days through a dreary
wilderness, the difficulties of which were increased
by morasses, rapid torrents, and high and rugged
mountains, where the order of march was broken
up, while each soldier, hastening with the best
speed which hunger, cold, and fatigue would permit,
strove to gain the frontier.”

“But do twelve hundred men comprise your
whole force for an enterprise so great as the invasion
of Canada?”

“But one division of the invading army, chevalier.
General Montgomery, in person, commands
the first division, which was to march into Canada
by Lake Champlain simultaneously with our own.
By this time Montgomery must be in the neighbourhood
of Montreal, and, perhaps, master of it. I am
despatched by Colonel Arnold with the information
of his having arrived at the head-waters of the
Chaudiere, and in less than ten days will be opposite
Quebec, to effect a junction with him. The
co-operation of the two armies will doubtless ensure
the subjugation of the capital, and, ultimately,
the whole territory of the Canadas.”

“It is a noble and well-matured enterprise,” exclaimed
the chevalier, with animation, “and it must
succeed. The garrison at Quebec is small, and
cannot hold out against an energetic attack. Please
God, the time has at length come when the Canadian
shall no longer blush to own his country.
But,” he added, after surveying the officer for a
moment, and remarking his youthful appearance,
“methinks you are but a young soldier to be the

medium of communication between two armies at
a crisis so important. I am surprised,” he continued
to himself, half aloud, while his brow clouded,
“that Colonel Arnold should have chosen a beardless
boy on so dangerous a mission. I fear, sir,”
he added, addressing him, “that you may prove
too inexperienced for the task to which you have
been appointed. By the mass! I would that your
chief had chosen a more fitting messenger.”

“Sir Chevalier,” replied the young soldier, with
spirit, “wisdom is not always found with gray
hairs, nor is age the infallible test of experience.
If devotion to the cause I have voluntarily embraced
may be thrown into the scale against my
youth, and if indifference to danger may be allowed
to balance inexperience, then am I a fitting messenger.”

“You have spoken well, young sir,” replied the
old soldier, with a smile of approbation; “but you
have undertaken an enterprise which age, wisdom,
courage, and even patriotism may hardly be able to
accomplish. Bethink you,” he added, gazing upon
the animated countenance of the young adventurer,
and mentally resolving to dissuade one, in whom
he already felt no inconsiderable degree of interest,
from pursuing a long journey, necessarily attended
with danger, “bethink you, young sir, it is
a score of leagues to the St. Lawrence, and your
road lies through an enemy's country.”

“I have measured, on foot, half that distance
since yesterday's sunrise.”

“The rumour of your army's approach will fly
before you, and in every man who crosses your
path you will encounter a foe.”

“For this, too, I am prepared,” was the quiet
reply; “and because it is a service of danger and
adventure, therefore am I here. There does not

seem to me anything very appalling in the face of
a foeman. I carry,” he added, pointing to his pistols,
“two men's lives at my belt.”

“Rash and inconsiderate,” said the chevalier, in
a stern, displeased tone, turning away; “there is
that in the hot blood of youth which unfits them
as agents in schemes that require the least grain
of either caution or secrecy. By the mass! I
would rather trust a woman! To resent a hasty
buffet or a fierce look they will sacrifice the noblest
enterprises ever men set on foot. But now,”
he continued, abruptly addressing him, “I would
have dissuaded thee from putting thyself in peril,
from compassion for thy youth and a certain interest
I felt in thy welfare, proposing to send one more experienced
in thy stead; now I would dissuade thee,
on account of thy unfitness for an emprise where
coolness and discretion are in demand.”

The chevalier, having thus spoken, folded his
arms moodily; and, turning away towards the
window, appeared to have lost all confidence in
the discretion of the young officer. The blood of
the latter mounted to his brow, and with an emotion
between mortification and resentment, he said,

“If it had been my humour, Sir Chevalier or Sir
Priest, to have fought my way to the St. Lawrence,
proclaiming myself the herald of an invading army,
and entering into a brawl with every boor who
crossed my path, I should not have adopted this
monkish guise. To prove its efficiency and my
discretion,” he added, smiling, and catching the
eye of the chevalier as he turned round, with an
apology on his tongue, “a brief hour ago I conferred
the kiss of sisterhood on the ruby lips of the
fair Jaquette, the buxom rib of honest François—
doubtless thou knowst whom I mean, good father
—and that in the happy husband's presence. If

this disguise will baffle a husband's penetration at
such a time, I think I have no fear of detection
elsewhere.”

“Not,” said the chevalier, his good-humour restored,
“not unless thy cowl fail to conceal thy
beardless cheek; for, by the mass! in such a mischance
thou wouldst be seized as a strolling wench
in masquerade, and so equally defeat our purpose.
Yet for a mere youth thou art a proper man, and
might teach older heads than thine own. So thou
wilt go forward, then, on this dangerous journey?”

“So will I, Sir Chevalier; and I pray you give
me horse and guide, and bid me God speed.”

“Then, if thou wilt, God speed thee! But I
fear, nevertheless, thou wilt swing, ere many days
be past, over the Prescot gate of Quebec as a rebel
spy. Keep thy hood close, and let the lasses alone,
and it may save thy neck. When wilt thou take
horse?”

“This hour,” replied the young soldier, preparing
to resume his disguise.

“This hour! that metal rings well. Carry this
promptness of action with thee, young man, into
the world thou art just entering, and it will ensure
thee success in the field or in the cabinet, or wherever
thy destinies lead thee. To such energies as
thine nothing will seem impossible. Whatever
thou dost resolve thou wilt achieve, and the difficulties
thou mayst encounter in the pursuit of an
object will augment, in the same proportion, thy diligence.
Nil desperandum is the motto of such a
mind as thine. I am no necromancer, but I am
deeply read in the countenances of men. They
have been my books for nearly half a century, and
their language is as familiar to me as the characters
on this lettered page. I have studied thy face,
and could tell thee what thou art; and, if life be

granted thee, what thou mayst be. Ambition is
the idol of thy worship, but, like Mark Antony, thou
wilt set up Cleopatra beside it. Beware whom
thou trustest! most of all, beware of thyself, and
thy wildest dreams may yet be realized.”

The old chevalier uttered these words with a
prophetic energy, and his eyes kindled with enthusiasm.
But, when he had ceased speaking, the
unwonted excitement disappeared from his features,
not gradually, as it would go from the face
of youth, but, like a lamp suddenly extinguished,
his countenance all at once became calm and divested
of every emotion.

The young soldier fixed his dark eyes with astonishment
upon the enthusiastic priest while he
was speaking, and, when he had concluded, replied,
with a heightened colour and flashing eye,

“Noble chevalier, I know not if you are a true
prophet or no. My heart or my wishes tell me
you speak truly. It is, indeed, my ambition to
overtop my fellow-men; and, rather than crawl unmarked
among the common herd, and fill, when all
is done, a nameless grave—”

“Hold! no more! Tell not the friendly wind
that fans thy cheek in summer, nor whisper to
the senseless blade, whose hilt thou hast now
grasped so tightly, what thou wilt do! The camp
is the fit school in which to tame and train such a
spirit as thine. 'Twill teach thee to measure thy
words by line and plumb, and that to veil thy
thoughts with language foreign to their bent is the
better part of wisdom. By the mass! these young
soldiers are either hot or cold till stern experience,
with gauntlet on fist, pummels them lukewarm.
But I have forgotten thy claims on my hospitality.”

“I have already supped,” said his guest, as the
chevalier rose to order refreshments, “and that, too,

beneath a roof,” he added, smiling archly, “where
fair hands displayed their culinary skill.”

“Then François hath played the host as well as
ferryman?”

“Even so.”

“And, if my memory doth not play me false,
thou didst speak of having sweet lips for thy dessert.
By the mass! then thou canst not well relish
such fare as my poor larder affords. But, if
thou hast feasted, thou hast not slept. If thou
canst rest on a priest's bed, thou mayst there,” he
added, pointing to the cott on one side of the apartment,
“woo a maiden whom weary travellers seldom
woo in vain; for myself, thy stirring news
hath once more roused the soldier in me, and will,
for this night at least, chase sleep from my eyelids.
While thou art seeking that repose so needful
for thee, I will plan thy morrow's journey, and
afterward prepare such despatches for my political
associates as the news of this welcome invasion
shall make expedient. Thou canst not ride before
the dawn, when a fleet horse and a faithful guide
shall await thee on the mainland. So, fair sir, to
thy pillow, for thou wilt find couch nor pillow more
between this and thy journey's end.”

“Then will I be chary as the jealous husband
of his young wife's charms, of what favours the
maiden you speak of shall bestow,” said the youth,
gayly, spreading, as he spoke, his monk's gown
upon the floor; “I will not rob you of your couch
so hospitably offered, but throw myself before this
warm fire, upon this plank; 'tis a bed of down
compared with the rough lodgings I have shared of
late. May it please you, wake me by the earliest
dawn, Sir Chevalier?” he added, stretching himself
before the stove, and composing himself to rest.

“That thou mayst depend upon, young soldier,”

replied the chevalier, seating himself by the table
and preparing his writing materials for present use.

“Every moment,” he murmured to himself, as
he took his pen and commenced writing, “is big
with great events, and one hour too soon or late
may make or mar what centuries cannot repair.”
In a few moments he was deeply absorbed in writing,
while his guest, wrapped in his robe, slept
with the quiet and deep repose of an infant.

3. CHAPTER III.
THE ALARM.

After the fall of the chivalrous Montcalm before
the walls of Quebec, and the subsequent surrender
of that city to the British troops, the fate of the
French dominion in the Canadas was virtually decided.
Nevertheless, the French entertained hopes
of reversing this decision by recapturing Quebec.
The Chevalier de Levi, at that period, was an intrepid
and experienced soldier in the prime of life,
and distinguished as a leader. He had been trained
in the European wars, was a Canadian by birth,
and a zealous and enthusiastic patriot. After the
death of Montcalm he assembled the remnant of
the Canadian forces, and in a few weeks collected
an army, composed of regular soldiers and armed
peasantry, amounting, in all, to nearly twelve thousand
men. With this formidable force he marched
upon Quebec, but was encountered a few miles
from its gates, on the twentieth of April, seventeen
hundred and sixty, by the British general Murray,

who, learning his intentions, had issued from the
fortress with three thousand troops to offer him
battle.

The hostile armies met within a few miles of
Quebec, and furiously engaged. The battle was
contested with the utmost obstinacy for two hours,
the chevalier himself mingling in the thickest of the
fight, and performing deeds of valour not unworthy
a brave knight of ancient romance. General Murray
was at length compelled to retire upon Quebec,
with the loss of more than one thousand men,
killed, wounded, and taken prisoners, leaving all his
baggage and field-artillery to the victors. The loss
in the chevalier's army was nearly twenty-five hundred
men. Animated with his success, he followed
the defeated Murray with spirit, and laid siege to
the city, within which he had withdrawn. It was
on the point of capitulating, when the garrison was
relieved by the arrival of a fleet bringing a detachment
of British soldiers. The chevalier, with an
undisciplined army, was unable to contend successfully
against fresh troops, and, raising the siege,
made a precipitate retreat. His followers dispersed,
and the fallen chief found himself at sunset
deserted by every one save a single attendant, already
introduced to the reader as the porter Homfroy.

Despairing of any present means of expelling
the conquerors of his native country, the Chevalier
de Levi retired into the monastery of St. Claude,
then a thriving community, although, at the period
of the disguised young officer's visit to the Father
Etienne, the name assumed by the military recluse,
it was only a ruined asylum for a few aged priests.
Were we to weigh carefully the motives that induced
the unsuccessful soldier to take this pious
step, we should, perhaps, find them composed, in

part, of a desire to bury his own disgrace from the
world; in part of a morbid melancholy, the consequence
of his defeat and disappointment, a disposition
of the mind which often drives men both to
the church and the cloister; but we should also
find that he was governed by a deeper feeling than
either of these. Aware that the priesthood were
generally disaffected with the existing government,
his main object was to attach himself to this body,
that, by the aid of so vast an engine of political
power, and under the cover of a monastic life, he
might combine a conspiracy against the new government,
and, when it should become fully matured,
apply the torch to the train he had laid, and spread
a revolutionary flame like wildfire throughout the
territory.

Such were the motives which converted the Chevalier
de Levi into Father Etienne. His schemes,
however, never ripened into maturity; and, though
always planning and plotting with a perseverance
and secrecy not unworthy of Lucius Catiline, and
constantly corresponding with the disaffected in
every quarter of Canada, and even with ambitious
individuals in the British colonies, among
whom, as has already been intimated, was the
leader of the eastern division of the invading army,
yet, on the day we intruded into his retirement, he
was as remote from his object, so far as the restoration
of the French dominion was concerned, as
on the first day he assumed the religious habit.
By long devotion to one sole object, from which
nothing could make him swerve, aided by an active
imagination and a sanguine temperament, the
chevalier had become transformed from a calm and
dispassionate patriot, devoting himself to his country,
into a settled monomaniac. To such a mind,
therefore, the threatened invasion, although it did

not embrace its long-cherished and favourite project,
was, nevertheless, welcome intelligence, inasmuch
as it would be, at least, the instrument of
overthrowing the government of his conquerors.
This object effected, the restoration of the old Canadian
régime, he was willing to confide to the course
of events.

Inspired, therefore, with renewed ardour in the
cause to which he had devoted his life, by these
tidings of invasion, with his eyes sparkling and his
hands trembling with excitement, he seated himself
at the table as the young soldier threw himself
upon the floor to sleep, and soon became involved
in a manifold correspondence. His arguments
were skilfully adapted to the circumstances
and prejudices of those to whom his letters were
addressed. To the disaffected priest, and there
were many such throughout the Canadas, he held
out the restoration of the Roman Catholic ascendency
and the return of the golden days of papal regality.
Before the imaginations of those Canadian
gentlemen who desired a change of government,
he displayed gorgeous pictures of titles and dignities,
and predicted the restitution of their alienated
privileges and honours; while the eyes of one individual,
of high birth and once in power, were
dazzled with the glitter of a vice-regal crown. No
scheme, however wild, seemed impracticable to the
mind of this visionary enthusiast. Finally, in addressing
a distinguished primate, whose good sense,
he was sufficiently aware, would not be blinded
either by his sophistry or arguments, however plausible,
and who, he was convinced, would withhold
his name and influence until there remained no
doubt of the re-establishment of the Catholic, or,
which was virtually the same thing, the Canadian
ascendency, he hinted that the American army was

but a few thousand strong; that they should be
supported by an active co-operation on the part of
the Canadians until they had captured Quebec;
“Then, if the partisan leaders are alive to their
own interests, which,” he continued, “I myself
will undertake to be the active instrument in awakening,
in the unguarded moment of victory, and by
the aid of superior numbers, we can snatch the
citadel from their grasp, and, please God, the flag
of France will once more float above its towers.”
The crafty politician facetiously closed his diplomatic
letter by relating the fable of the “Monkey
and Cat's-paw.”

He had folded, and was preparing to seal his
letters, when the deep silence of the apartment,
which, for the last half hour, had only been interrupted
by the busy scratching of his pen and the
light breathing of the sleeper, was broken by a loud
and lamentable wail from the river, accompanied
by the baying and howling of a dog. The next
moment it was repeated still more appallingly, and
soon after answered by a voice beneath the tower.
The cry was a third time heard, and the voice below
again answered it back, but now in a loud
key of surprise and alarm, so wild and shrill that
it chilled the blood of the chevalier, and started
the sleeper to his feet; at the same time the bell
in the turret above their heads began to ring, breaking
upon the stillness of the night with its untimely
clamour.

“God of heaven! what means this alarm?”
cried the youth, laying his hand on his sword-hilt
as he sprung to his feet.

“By the mass! I know not,” replied the chevalier,
disengaging the lamp from the chain by which
it hung, and taking a rapier from behind his bookcase;
“one would think the Philistines were
upon us.”

“List!” said the young soldier, as the cry was
repeated in a fainter key, “there is a man drowning
in the river. Hasten to his rescue.”

The impatient youth seized the lamp in the
hands of the chevalier, and, closely followed by
him, darted through the gallery, and descended
into the hall beneath. Here he was met by an old
monk, one of the chevalier's household, his eyes
starting from their sockets, his whole frame shaking
with terror, and his pale lips trembling with
a scarcely articulate exorcism.

“The matter! the cry! what means it?” almost
fiercely interrogated the youth, grasping him by
the shoulder.

“Salve Domine! Oh! oh! (in profundis) I had
been talking a little gossip with good Homfroy, and
sipping a little posset for my old body's sake; and
while we were sitting there, as innocent as two young
virgins, what should we hear but a cry from the
water. Oh Lord! oh! I looked out, and there was
the old enemy, black as pitch, with horns, and hoofs,
and tail (salve Domine) and I shrieked with fear,
and would have fallen into a swoon, but—”

“Haste ye! haste ye, reverend fathers, there is
life and death in thy speed,” shouted Homfroy, as
the impatient young man flung the old monk from
him; “a perishing creature is struggling in the ice,
midway the river.”

“The ice, Homfroy!” repeated the chevalier, as
he waited for him to undo the bolt.

“The ice is as thick as this bar. I looked from
my window to answer the call, and saw the moon
glistening on it as if 'twere polished steel.”

As Homfroy spoke the last word and drew back
his last bolt, they rushed past him and hastened
to the shore, followed at a more moderate rate by the
less agile porter and his gossip the monk, whose

terrors could neither keep him within the convent
nor paralyze his tongue when without. The atmosphere
was still intensely cold, but the moon
had risen, and now shed her clear light over forest
and river, while the dewy particles upon the grass,
crystallized by the frost, reflected her beams, and
gave to the sward the appearance of glittering with
myriads of minute diamonds. From shore to shore
the river was bound in a transparent sheet of ice,
and, under the action of the sharp air, the process
of congelation was going forward with a celerity
to be accredited only by those who have sailed
upon a lake at sunset, and crossed it the succeeding
sunrise in a carriole.

On arriving at the beach, the attention of the
party was directed to a man, whose outline was
distinctly visible by the light of the moon, sitting
in a boat, which appeared to be fast bound in the ice
in the middle of the river, and feebly shouting for
aid; while beside him, with his fore paws upon his
breast, stood a large dog, whose howls rose above
the faint cries of the man.

“It is François,” cried the young soldier.

He had scarcely spoken when a shriek from the
opposite shore fell piercingly on his ear.

“The saints have mercy!” ejaculated the chevalier,
“there is Jaquette's voice. François! poor
François!”

“'Tis two good hours since François left,” said
Homfroy, who now joined the group, puffing and
blowing with such unusual exertion, for Homfroy's
figure was of Falstaffian dimensions; “it cannot
be François; he is in bed long since.”

But the reiterated shrieks from the mainland, and
the thrilling repetition of the name of François in
a voice of agony, sufficiently betrayed the sufferer,
whose shouts, growing feebler every moment, had
now died away into an occasional moan.

“Poor François!” said the chevalier, “he has
got benumbed and frozen up in crossing, and is
now past exerting himself farther. Before the ice
will be strong enough to bear a man's weight he
will be beyond all human aid. Something must be
done, please God, and that quickly. By the mass!
I haven't felt such an air since the winter of fifty-five,
when I was in the Russian wars! How is
the ice?”

The young stranger, who had been actively proving
its strength with Homfroy's staff, replied despondingly,

“Frail enough;” and, pressing upon it with his
foot, he added, “it will not bear my own light
weight; but he must not perish while there exists
any means of saving him. Have you a boat on the
island?”

“Malheur! a boat? No, no,” replied old Homfroy,
shaking his head, “a boat can do no good.”

“Not a board—a plank—a fragment of anything?”
he continued, traversing the bank in search
of something to aid his philanthropic exertions,
and maddened by the shrieks of Jaquette.

“There are some remains of an old boat on the
bank above,” cried the chevalier, eagerly. “Haste
and bring them, all of ye,” he added, to Homfroy
and three or four monks whom the alarm had
drawn from their cells. “Ca, courage! my son,”
he shouted to the sufferer, whose moans had now entirely
ceased, “thou shalt yet lift thy voice in many
a merry stave.”

The young stranger, assisted by the chevalier
and his companions, soon collected on the verge of
the ice several broken planks from the wreck, and,
with skill and celerity, he set about constructing a
square frame or hurdle, strengthening it by transverse
pieces well secured with cords, which the

mother-wit of Homfroy instructed him to draw from
a bedstead in one of the deserted cells of the monastery.
With the united efforts of the whole
party, some minutes were required to complete it.
Launching it on the ice, the youth, with a long pole
in his hand, placed himself fearlessly but cautiously
upon it, and, to the surprise of the monks, by this
application of a simple principle in philosophy, of
increasing the surface of the weight to be supported,
he was sustained where otherwise he would have
broken through. With gentle force he pushed
from the bank, amid the mingled blessings and
prayers of the monks, and the encouraging exhortations
of the chevalier.

The undulation of the ice at first filled them with
apprehensions for the safety of the intrepid youth.
With his person erect and immoveable, he struck
out with his pole alternately on each side, changing
it from hand to hand with surprising dexterity,
aware that his safety and success depended upon
the velocity with which he glided over the surface
of the ice, and that the briefest pause thereon or
the least obstruction, would be fatal both to himself
and the individual for whom, with such presence of
mind and insensibility to danger, he had perilled
his life. The cries of the sufferer had ceased for
several minutes before he left the shore, and the
shrieks of Jaquette, whom he could distinguish on
the bank wringing her hands and surrounded by
her children and neighbours, had subsided into a
low wailing. Apprehensive that his aid would arrive
too late, he exerted himself to such good purpose,
that, in a few seconds after leaving the land,
he came swiftly alongside of the boat, into which
he leaped with the glad shouts of the spectators on
the island ringing in his ears, while a cry of joy
from the mainland assured him that his motions

were not unwatched by one who felt no common
interest in his success; and the passing reflection
rewarded him for all he had done.

The boat was firmly bound in the ice, which had
been broken up about the bow and stern, but the
fragments had again united, and showed that the
sufferer had for some time ceased his exertions to
extricate himself. François, for it was the lighthearted
peasant, was seated on the bow-thwart of
his boat, with one arm round the neck of his faithful
dog, and with his face turned towards his cottage,
as if he sought to die with his last look upon
his beloved home, his last gaze upon the partner
of his bosom and his sweet babes: alas! the home
whose threshold he was never to cross more, the
wife and babes he was never again to embrace!
The young stranger placed his hand on his heart
and temples. The pulse of life had for ever ceased
to vibrate; his eyes were closed, his head rested
upon one shoulder, and his countenance was as
calm and peaceful as if he only slept; he seemed
to have passed without pain from the sleep of the
living into the deep sleep of the dead.

“Can this be death? so calm, so placid! like
one in pleasant and quiet slumber!” thought the
young man as he gazed upon his serene countenance
by the clear light of the moon; “desirable,
indeed, must be that mode of death which leaves
the dead so like the living!”

For a few seconds he gazed on the placid face
of the dead François, lost in these reflections, and
forgetting for a moment the circumstances in which
he was placed, when a shout from the chevalier,
asking if François was alive, aroused him.

He cast his eyes, without replying, towards the
spot where stood Jaquette awaiting the result in
deathlike silence Unused to death in any shape,

and shocked at the fearful end of his late host,
whose lot a brief while before he had compared
with his own and envied, he uttered an impatient
imprecation against the wretchedness so profusely
mingled in the cup of life; and then, overcome
with emotion as he thought of the blow about to
fall upon the unprotected family, he remained for
several seconds incapable of speaking. This tribute
to his heart and to human nature was, however,
but momentary.

“Hola, brave youth!” again shouted the chevalier,
“how fares it with worthy François? Haste
with him to the shore, or thou wilt need aid also.”

“François is well,” replied the young officer,
evasively.

At a loss whether to convey the corpse directly
to the island, and, until morning, conceal his death
from Jaquette, or at once let her know the full extent
of her loss, he briefly considered the two
modes, and finally decided on removing him immediately
to the shore, and placing the body in her
charge. He therefore transferred the corpse, now
become rigid as marble, to the hurdle, and pushed
towards the bank. He moved with difficulty, for
his body was already penetrated by the insinuating
frost; his hands were nearly deprived of all
sensibility, and an oppressive drowsiness, to which
he knew it would be fatal to yield, had seized him.
As the hurdle touched the bank before her cottage,
Jaquette rushed forward and fell lifeless upon the
icy body of her husband.

A number of peasants, alarmed by the shouting
and the ringing of the convent bell, had already
collected on the shore; these he directed to convey
the body to the cottage. Several females took
charge of the insensible Jaquette, and, bearing her
to her dwelling, carried her into an inner room.

The young soldier followed them to the cottage
and remained in the outer apartment, where, the
evening before, he had supped with the happy family
under circumstances so opposite to the present,
and superintended the laying out of the body. He
gave, in a tone of authority, such directions as the
event rendered necessary to the neighbours of Fran
çois, who had assembled at the house of mourning
until the room was filled with a wondering and horror-stricken
crowd.

Although his instructions were obeyed with alacrity,
they served to draw the attention of the peasants
to the speaker, of whose intrepidity several of
them had been witnesses. At length he observed
that they whispered apart together, and that the
eyes of one or two, of rougher exterior and more
reckless bearing than their fellows, were directed
towards him with glances of suspicion; at the
same moment he discovered that his disguise,
which he had hastily resumed on starting from
sleep, was disarranged, and that a portion of his
military dress and the butt of a pistol were visible
through its folds.

He therefore waited for an opportunity to withdraw
from the room and cottage unobserved, when,
nastening to the shore, he recrossed the ice, now
firm enough to bear his footsteps, and returned to
the monastery, where he found the chevalier with
his companions congregated in Homfroy's well-warmed
room, impatiently awaiting tidings from
the shore.

On being once more alone with the chevalier in
his closet, he informed him of the death of Fran
çois, and of the unlucky exposure of his profession
before the peasants, and insisted on taking his leave
immediately, as the appearance of an officer disguised
as a monk would be food for gossip, and, perhaps,

ultimately lead to unpleasant consequences,
particularly if by any means it should be rumoured
that an American army was approaching.

The chevalier approved of his plan; and taking
from the table the letters he had written during the
night, they left the monastery together, and, crossing
to the mainland, proceeded towards the cottage
of the deceased François.

“Remain without until I come forth,” said the
chevalier to his companion, placing his hand upon
the latch of the door as he spoke.

In a few minutes he came out, followed by an
awkward, ungainly clown, stoutly built, with square
shoulders, a stolid look, and a skulking air like
that of a whipped schoolboy. He appeared to be
about twenty-six years of age, and was dressed in
the usual garb of his class; his clothes, nevertheless,
were much too small for him, and his bonnet
much too large.

“Here is the guide who will direct you to the
house of the vicaire Ducosse, ten leagues down the
valley, to whom you will bear a letter. There,”
added the chevalier, in a lower tone, “you will obtain
another guide. The vicaire you may safely
trust. Jacques, conduct the reverend father to thy
cottage, and with all diligence saddle thy two horses
and mount, and, by the mass! see that thou spare
neither hide nor spur. I have told thee wherefore
he travels, and it is a matter on thy conscience that
thou doest my bidding. So haste and make ready
for thy speedy journey. Young sir,” he added,
addressing the disguised soldier, “I have, for the
present, hushed all suspicion among the peasants
within the cottage. All will now depend upon
your caution. Here are certain despatches, which
I pray you to place with all safety into the hands
of the Father Guise, who resides at the last post

on your route; you will reach it with hard riding by
sunset the day after to-morrow. He will attend to
their delivery according to their several superscriptions.
In this paper you will find directions for
your route, and here is an epistle introductory to
brother vicaire Ducosse. Farewell, my young
friend; God and the saints guide you on your way.
Be wise, and you will be successful. Your guide,
Jacques, who is a mere animal, you may always
trust. His dread of the pains of purgatory, with
which, as Father Etienne, I have threatened him
if he be faithless or lacking in his duty, is a better
guarantee for his honesty than if he were your
sworn friend and brother. So good-night, for, peradventure,
you are the messenger of a nation's fate.”
Thus speaking, and warmly grasping his hand, he
separated from him and re-entered the cottage.

The monk, as we shall once more term the disguised
soldier, followed his guide at a rapid pace
along a narrow path which wound by the banks of
the river. After a walk of half a mile they stopped
before a cottage, resembling, but less picturesque,
that of the unfortunate François.

“Enter, father, and warm thy limbs by the embers,”
said the guide, opening its only door, “and
I'll get ready the nags.”

“I will help you,” replied the impatient traveller;
“we can both get warm enough riding; the sooner
we mount and are on our road, the better.”

He followed his guide through a rude gate into
a low stable constructed of logs, where stood two
small and spirited Canadian horses, of a breed remarkable
for their hardihood. They were soon
caparisoned and at the door. Before mounting the
peasant entered his cabin, and exchanged the bonnet
he wore for a cap of furs, enveloped his body
in a capote of fox-skins, and, drawing on a pair of

boots and then a pair of gloves, lined with dogskin,
with the fur on the outside, said he was ready to
ride; at the same time, he presented the monk with
similar garments as a necessary protection against
the severity of the cold. He gladly accepted and
enveloped himself in these comfortable Canadian
defences against the rigour of their climate, and,
drawing his priestly frock over all, mounted and
followed his guide, who, starting off at a gallop,
rode rapidly in a northernly direction, and along
a beaten path which led for many miles beside the
banks of the river.

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE OATH.

At daybreak the ensuing morning the monk and
his guide were full five leagues from the monastery
of St. Claude, and pursuing their journey at a rapid
rate through a dense forest, along a road which led
to a hamlet of a few cottages, situated on the eastern
bank of the Chaudiere. As the morning
dawned the cold became more intense, increased
by a sharp wind that rose with the sun; and as
the travellers gained the brow of a hill, from which
they caught a view of the distant hamlet, it became
so severe that its effect upon any portion of the
skin exposed to its penetrating influence was like
that of fire.

The cautious guide was so completely enveloped
in his furs that there remained scarcely a crevice
for his vision, choosing rather that the animal he

rode should be left to his own instinct for pursuing
the path than that his person should suffer by needless
exposure. The monk, incautious, and evidently
less experienced in the severities of a Canadian
winter, as they descended the hill lifted his
visor to survey the far-extended prospect of wood,
vale, and river before him. He immediately cried
out with pain, experiencing, as the piercing wind
touched his cheek and forehead, a burning sensation,
as if his skin had been exposed to the hot blast
of a sirocco. Following the example of his guide,
he enveloped his face in the furs, repeating the
language of Milton in describing the abode of Satan:

“The hamlet thou didst see from the hill aback
be where we'll get fresh nags,” growled the guide
through his furred hood, as they reached the plain
on which the hamlet was situated, and were riding
along under the protection of the forest. Not receiving
any answer, he rode to the side of the
monk, who had kept in advance, and continued, in
the tone of one who wished to be companionable,

“By St. Claude o' the island! a fire and a cup
o' wine would be none the worse for thee or I.
Faith, sir, my voice sticks to my jaws.”

“Vox faucibus hœsit,” said the monk in reply;
“this frost makes your speech classical Jacques;
and that, too, without the knowledge of your wits,
I'll be sworn! But Virgil was a peasant like yourself,
and why may not the same base earth that has
once yielded gold yield gold again?”

“Anan, father!” slowly responded the stolid
peasant, “I know not what thou sayst; tho' an'
thou do speak about this here land, then I can tell
'un never better soil was ploughed than be in this

plain. But, most worshipful, I'se not over wise in
holy things; and, by thy leave, as thou didst but
now swear by thyself, may I ask 'un if or no it be
a deadly sin, worthy o' purgatory, to make oath by
one's self? not that thou canst so sin, holy father,
or the church vicaires; no, the saints forbid! It
were a good thing to be a savoury priest, and swear
betimes. Save us! the godly Father Etienne rippeth
out oaths on occasion like a very Turk.
Canst tell me, most worshipful, if't be a deadly sin
or no?”

“What may be your especial motive, honest
Jacques, in seeking to be instructed in so weighty
a matter?” asked the monk, gravely.

“Hark ye! holy priest,” answered Jacques, in a
lower voice, whipping up his jaded steed, and riding
closer to the monk's ear, “I would give the best
sheep, save the old wether, o' the last year's droppin',
and a fat gobbler to boot to roast for thy Christmas
dinner, if thou wouldst give me dispensation
to swear roundly by my beard without fear o' the
pains o' purgatory.”

“Ha, Jacques, is it so? I fear the devil is tempting
thee to sin,” said the monk, solemnly; “thou
needst, rather, that I should appoint fasts and penance
for the good of thy soul.”

“Na, na! seven thousand saints forbid,” he answered,
hastily, and devoutly crossing himself;
“but it were a brave circumstance to swear stoutly
when one is with his mates. Wilt take the sheep
and fat gobbler, father?”

“Alas, my son! wouldst thou corrupt the church?
Thy speech savoureth of mammon. Surely Beelzebub
hath possessed thee!”

“Hout, na, most worshipful! but 'tis just thus,”
responded Jacques, with more animation than he
had yet evinced; “I go to mass every Sabbath-day,

keep saints' day and holy day, pay my tithe of
grain, like a seigneur, to the vicaires (saving hay
and potatoes, which holy church asketh not), confess
on Newyear's eve, as I hope to do the next one,
with help o' the good Virgin; nor do I take oath,
save by St. Claude, or the Virgin, or the saints,
and such like holy and worshipful oaths, 'gainst
which there can be found no scripture, saith porter
Homfroy, who is learned in holy things, tho' there
be a commandment, he hath told me, 'gainst forswearing
by one's self or the hairs of one's beard.
It were a brave oath for a proper man, father, this
swearing by one's beard!”

“Thou sayst well, Jacques! 'twere a most valiant
oath, a gallant, and, withal, a fierce oath. But
wherefore, save in its fitness for thy manhood,
wouldst thou fortify thy speech by an oath so truculent?”

“Methinks, most worshipful, if I could swear
stoutly by my beard when I get back among my
mates, they'll no longer let me keep i' the corner
or shove me out o' the way, as if I be not a human
being and a lad o' mettle, like that loud-swearing
Luc Giles, who swears by his beard like a trooper,
or even a worshipful priest, bidding me do this and
bidding me do that, with a ripping oath that makes
the blood run cold to my fingers' ends; and, maybe,
if I am not quick enough to suit his humour,
comes a knock on the head, and he but a ploughman
like myself! But it comes of swearing by his
beard; so fearful 'tis to hear him, father!”

“But if there be such valiancy in this oath thou
speakst of, worthy Jacques,” observed the monk,
“what should hinder thee from using a weapon
thou hast seen so formidable in the mouths of others?
Trust me, Jacques, that fellow's courage lieth altogether

in his beard, as thou hast heard the strength
of Samson did in his hair.”

“By St. Claude, most worshipful!” replied
Jacques, with more confidence in his tone, “thou
sayst truly. I would,” he added, looking on all
sides cautiously, and lowering his voice, “I would
not be afraid to make oath he had a chicken's liver.
Wilt give me dispensation, father?”

“Why ask it, my son? I don't believe this same
Luc Giles hath received it?”

“He?” exclaimed Jacques, in a tone of contempt;
“not unless he got it from the devil. He
is devil-born, father, fearing neither God nor man,
and mocks at holy things. He did only yesterday
say,” continued Jacques, crossing himself with holy
horror, “that there was no part of the true cross
to be found; and that, if all the pieces said to be of
the true cross were put together, they would build
a church as big as a cathedral.”

“Sacrilegious unbeliever and heretic!” exclaimed
the monk.

“So I told him, and he gave me a buffet on the
cheek, and bid me begone for a drivelling papist!
If thou wilt give me this dispensation, most worshipful,”
said Jacques, perseveringly returning to
the subject of his application, “by the holy St.
Claude, an' if I do not swear by my beard in the
face of that cock o' the roost, Luc Giles, when
next he bids me for an ass do this, and for a runt
do that! ay, and look at him fiercely in such a
fashion that he shall go fling his oaths at other cattle,
then call me coward, that's all.”

“Then a good round oath by thy beard will
make this cock o' the roost, whose spurs have
goaded thy valiant spirit, cut his own comb?”

“Ay, will it, most worshipful,” replied the belligerantly-minded
Jacques, with confidence in his tone.

“Then, honest Jacques, swear by thy beard till
it be gray, and I will warrant thee dispensation from
purgatory if thou take oath by each particular
hair,” replied the monk, spurring forward his tired
horse; and adding, as they trotted into the hamlet
which they had beheld before them for some time,
“here, now, is our resting-place; practise, if thou
wilt, thy magic oath a little on the inmates of yonder
hostelry, that we may speedily get food and
fresh horses.”

“By my beard! will I,” responded Jacques,
stoutly; “and see thou, most worshipful, if they
stir not their clumsy limbs to good purpose.”

Thus speaking, he applied whip and spur to the
flanks of his pony, and, throwing himself off before
the door of the inn, held the bridle of the monk's
horse while he dismounted, and then began to call
lustily upon the inmates.

“Hola, ho! hola! will ye make a holy man
wait all day in the cold, while ye are toasting your
shins before a good fire? Come forth, I say,” he
continued, hammering away at the door with the
butt of his whip, “or, by my beard! ay, by each
particular hair of my beard, will I break down thy
crazy door. Stir thee, stir thee! dost hear me take
oath by my beard, and movest not? Luc Giles
would stir thy stumps an he swore at thee as he
hath done at me. Ho! hola, ho!”

While he thus shouted, battering the door between
every pause, an old woman in a dark plaid mantelet
lined with fur, a stuffed petticoat, gay moccasins,
and a particoloured headdress, such as is
worn by the female peasantry of Lower Canada,
and resembling, as well as their other apparel, the
costume of the peasantry of Normandy, opened the
door and confronted the travellers.

“Father, thy blessing!” she asked, reverently

crossing her wrinkled forehead and courtesying
as her eye fell on the figure of the monk; “enter,
and welcome. Cowl and cassock, though they
seldom bring or leave a silver cross in a wayside-inn,
leave a holy one, which is better in these godless
times, when heretics rule the land. What!”
she exclaimed, in a very different key, as the
monk, passing by her to the fire, left exposed, in
full view, the form of the redoubtable Jacques,
who, on the first symptoms of an intention to remove
the latch of the door from within, discreetly
placed the monk's person between his own and
the anticipated danger, for Jacques had travelled
this road before, and knew with whom he had to do;
“what, is't thou, thou brainless fool, who beat
at a lone woman's door as if thou wert a foraging
voltigeur, and swearing so loudly, too, by thy weazen-faced
beard? Mercie! one would believe thou
hadst one. The blessed Virgin spare thee what
little wit thou hast, Jake,” she added, more mildly;
“but thou beest cold. Come in, come in, and
warm thee, poor helpless body! Jean will take
thy nags, and I will see what I can cook up for
thine and the father's appetite, for the cold morn
has, no doubt, given it edge enough. But, Jake,”
she whispered in the ear of the guide as he crossed
the threshold, “on what message travels the holy
man so early and at such speed, for thy nags smoke
as if thou hadst not spared spur?”

“A brave monk, and a most worshipful, by my
beard, mother Alice,” replied Jacques, in a patronising
tone, but with the straightforward simplicity
of a firm believer in what he uttered; “he goeth to
the great capital to shrive the pope's sublime holiness,
as Homfroy calleth him.”

“Out upon the fool,” exclaimed the dame, indignantly;
“who told thee that round lie? Dost not

know, thou heathen, that the pope lives over the
salt sea, and, at need, can shrive himself? Who
gave thee such dolt's broth for thy gullet?”

“By my beard,” responded Jacques, in defence,
“so said the worshipful Father Etienne. He bid
me, too, to guide him to Father Ducosse, and to
tell thee, dame Alice, thou must give thy son Jean's
ploughing-nags for the road, and take mine. I'll
have them safe back in thy stalls by the morn.”

“Hoit! and does he think I'm to lose a day's
work o' the nags for naught? Did the father give
thee silver, lad?” inquired the dame, with professional
care of her own interest.

“Didst ever know a priest give coin, mother?
He bid me tell thee thou shouldst have absolution
for thy life's sins when he next rides this way, an
thou properly do his bidding. And, if thou dost
ask him, old mother, he'll give thee leave to swear
by thy beard.”

“I'd pull thy fool's beard, an Heaven had given
thee one, thou brainless idiot,” cried the old dame,
in the height of her indignation, conscious that
her chin would have done better credit to Jacques's
oath than his own scantily-sown beard could have
done; “I know not if thou art more fool than knave!
But in, in with thee! Thou shalt have the nags, if
'twere only to be rid of thee,” she said, in a mood
between good-nature and ill-humour. “'Tis time
the father had somewhat to break his fast.”

Their meal, which she hastily prepared, was
eaten with rapidity and in silence. The fresh
beasts were brought to the door, and, resuming
their furs, which they had laid aside as they seated
themselves at the table, the travellers once more
mounted their horses. The monk, as he rode past
the door, bestowed with his solicited blessing a

piece of money upon the hostess, accompanying it
with a compliment on her fare.

“Mercie!” she cried, casting her eyes with astonishment
upon his religious gown as he trotted
off, followed by Jacques; “he must be the holy
pope himself, to give good silver with such a free
hand. It's not the way o' the ordinary fathers I've
met with in my day. I've lived threescore years
and better, kept open hostel fourteen o' them come
Christmas, and never, till now, did I see the colour
o' priests' coin; by the same token, they have often
seen the colour o' mine. Well, 'tis good ringing
silver,” she concluded, dropping it on the stone step
of the door before closing it, “and I'll keep it for
luck.”

The monk and his attendant, mounted on fresh
horses, now rode rapidly forward, their road still
winding along the banks of the Chaudiere, which
were bordered for many miles with larches, oaks,
sycamores, elms, and cedars, some of them of im
mense size, and many retaining their dark mantles
of evergreen, of which even winter could not rob
them. Others, stripped of their summer foliage,
flung abroad their scraggy and unsightly limbs,
striking emblems of that desolation which winter,
like an exulting conqueror, spreads over the smiling
face of nature. The region through which they
rode was diversified by extensive pasture-lands and
well-stocked farms in a high state of cultivation;
and, as they proceeded, it became more populous.
Here and there a church tower rose in the distance,
hamlets and farmhouses became more frequent,
and on all sides the characteristic signs of a populous
country were visible. The scenery constantly
varied in its character, and often called forth expressions
of admiration from the traveller, who frequently
paused, breathing his horse the while, to

gaze upon its sublime or picturesque features.
At one time, the perspective combinations of the
view changing with every mile they advanced, they
wound through a deep gorge, worn by the river,
here too wild and unruly to be confined by the
grasp of winter, and pouring with velocity through
its contracted bed, its surface broken into numerous
cascades. At another time they skirted the
base of lofty cliffs, wooded to their summits, and
towering in savage grandeur above their heads.
At another they ambled through a pleasant lane,
bordered by fruit trees, with the white cottage of
the habitans dispersed at intervals along their
route; and now they traversed a narrow dell shut
in by hills cultivated to their tops, or some secluded
vale, in which contentment and domestic peace
seemed to have taken up their abode. The river,
raging among rocks or tumbling in cascades, wild
with overhanging cliffs, or embellished with beautiful
islands, was a feature in every change of the
panorama. Even where its placid course was arrested,
as it meandered through some interval, by
the frost of the preceding night, its surface was as
transparent as when, bearing the breast of the wild
fowl or the skiff of the fisherman, it glided along
between banks of summer foliage.

About an hour before noon, without having met
with any obstacle or seen scarcely a human being,
save occasionally a bucheron cleaving his winter's
fuel in the forest, a few peasants labouring on
their farms, a female or a group of children peeping
through the windows of the closely-shut cabins,
they arrived in sight of a stone house situated on
the side of a hill facing the south.

“You be my journey's end, father,” said Jacques,
pointing to the habitation, “tho' if't be thine or no,
thy worshipful wisdom knoweth best. By my

beard! father, the nags smell the fodder, and move
brisker the latter end o' the way than at the outset.”

Indeed, the horses, with characteristic instinct,
seemed to be equally aware, with Jacques, that
they were approaching their journey's end, or,
at least, a baiting-place; for, when the house appeared
in sight they pricked up their ears, and set
off at a vigorous pace, which they kept up until
they arrived at the place of their destination. The
house before which the wearied travellers drew up
was a square stone edifice, two stories high, with
a single wing, and surrounded by a piazza. A light
portico protected the front entrance in winter and
shaded it in summer. It was separated from the
road by a court, and accessible by a gravelled walk
bordered by young evergreens, among which were
the pine, hemlock, and hackamatack, or red larch.

Dismounting at the gateway of the courtyard,
the traveller approached the dwelling, leaving the
horses in charge of Jacques. Ascending the portico,
he knocked at the door with a good will, to
which his half frozen condition and impatience of
delay contributed not a little. His summons was
answered by the creaking of a bolt, and the next
moment the appearance of a middle-aged man in
the open door. He was attired in a dress half
clerical, half laical, such as Catholic priests are
wont to wear in their own houses. His visage
was thin and cadaverous, and his frame large and
bony. His countenance wore a mild and benevolent,
yet indolent expression, while a twinkling
gray eye beneath shaggy brows betrayed humour
and intelligence.

“Bénédicité!” he said, saluting the monk with
grave politeness; “enter, brother, and share our
genial fire, for that, I see, thou needst most;
meanwhile,” he added, with the ready hospitality

of the Canadian clergy, “I'll have thee food prepared,
and see thy beasts safely housed. 'Tis a
bitter day to be abroad. Winter hath come upon
us manibus pedibusque, as the Latin hath it, which
is to say, with tooth and nail; but it becometh me
not to paraphrase the tongues to thee, erudite brother,
albeit the habit of holding converse daily with
the specimen of Eve's kind, who ruleth my domestic
matters, leadeth me to do it oftentimes incontinently;
but, scitè ac munditer condit cibos, sayeth
Plautus, which, in the vernacular, signifieth that she
is a good cook. Her skill thou shalt try anon, as
I perceive she hath already spread the board for
the meridian repast.”

“Reverend and learned curé,” replied the monk,
whom, while he was speaking, the host had ushered
into a well-heated room, the agreeable temperature
of which was preserved by a large fire blazing
in the chimney and a stove placed in the centre,
“I honour the wisdom of your selection in so
nice and difficult a matter as the choice of a cook or
coquus as much as I respect your learning. While
I do justice to her culinary talents, which, I doubt
not, do infinite credit to your judgment, I will acquaint
you with the cause of my intrusion into your
domicilium.”

The monk, who had intuitively caught and chimed
in with the humour of his host during the progress
of the meal—which, in passing, be it remarked, was
in every respect unexceptionable—related to him so
much of his object as was necessary to ensure his
co-operation and present aid in forwarding him in
security on his way; this was further ensured
through the influence of the chevalier's letter, which
he at the same time gave him.

“Me hercule! worthy juvenis, or youth,” exclaimed
the curé, when he had completed the pe

rusal of the letter, “thou hast begun young to go
forth to the wars. But Saint David slew Goliath—
thou knowst the Vulgate, I doubt not, wherein the
story is related at length?—and thy years, peradventure,
may likewise do honour to the valiant man of
war who sent thee on this perilous message. But,
touching this epistle from brother Etienne,” he
said, looking over the letter once more, and then
carefully folding it up, “I reply in the words of
Tullius Cicero, `Dum lego, assentior.' Thou shalt
be forwarded on thy journey forthwith, for the
business thou hast in hand requireth diligence.
The saints bring about that for which I long have
wearied them, even the restoration of our church's
dignity and power in the land, and among the rulers
thereof. But thou wilt not ride now, my son,” he
said, seeing his guest rise from the table and prepare
to resume his travelling apparel; “all too
soon, all too soon after eating.

saith the school-rhyme, which, in the vernacular,
hath been rendered,

“Verily, young cavalier or brother—for thou art
the one or the other—as I look either on thy quick
eye and gallant bearing, or upon the cowl and
gown, which, I cannot but observe, thou wearest
after an ill and awkward fashion, I fear it is a
scandal for the church's vestments to be put to such
unseemly uses,” he continued, sighing, and crossing
himself with the wing of a chicken, with which
his teeth had been busy while he was speaking.
“Verily thou must not leave me yet,” he added, wiping
his lips with a napkin, and pledging his guest
in a cup of mild wine; “I will first teach thee the

scientia popinæ, or the art of concocting savoury
messes, known and esteemed by the ancients, as
thou mayst learn on reference—”

“Pardon me, learned curé,” interrupted the
monk, enveloping his head, as he spoke, in his fur
bonnet, “I would gladly be your pupil in this honourable
science, seeing that the generous repast
I have but now partaken of bears testimony to its
utility; but, if it be possible, I must be on horseback
within the hour, as my next post is twelve
leagues off, and I desire to be there before morning.
Therefore, father, you cannot better please me, or
aid the cause you have at heart more, than by forwarding
me on my journey at once. A fleet horse
and a trusty guide were more acceptable than an
abbot's feast.”

“Thou shalt have both, Deo volente, my son,”
said the curé, promptly, his naturally indolent mind
receiving impetus from the spirit of the youth; and
laying his knife and fork down on his plate with a
sigh, he rose and left the room. In a short time
he returned, and said,

“I have saddled my own equus or steed for thee,
my son, and sent to a worthy dame, one of my parishioners,
to borrow another; a beast, though of less
comeliness of form, of equal mettle; him the good
woman's son will ride. The boy is but an untamed
cub, and will exercise thy patience. Nathless,
he will conduct thee to the convent of St.
Therese, from which place thou wilt obtain another
guide to the St. Lawrence.”

In the course of half an hour, the lad destined
to take the place of Jacques, who, be it here recorded,
had feasted sumptuously with the “coquus
or cook,” came into the room. He was about fifteen
years of age, remarkably small in stature, with a
snub nose, given to upturning, lively, twinkling, mischievous

gray eyes, one of which was marvellously
asquint, straight yellow hair, and a red freckled
face, the expression of which was mingled intelligence
and cunning. His manners were forward,
and indicated self-possession above his years. He
was rolled up in fur tippets and muffs till he appeared
as broad as he was long. He entered the
room whisking his riding-switch about, and without
doffing his fur bonnet, which was made of a
foxskin with the brush hanging down his back, in
a shrill voice and with a swaggering air, looking
from a corner of his eye at the monk, he addressed
the curé.

“This, then, be the priest, Father Duc, I'm to
ride with to St. Therese? The devil help me, if
he gabble as much Latin as thou, father, there will
be but little wit spoken on the road.”

“Chut st, chut st! Zacharie Nicolet, with thy
malapert tongue; thou art but a young pup to bark
so fiercely,” cried the curé, forgetting his Latin in
his displeasure.

“And thou art a toothless hound, which can
neither bark nor bite,” retorted the lad, with spirit.

“Habet salem; the lad hath the true Attic on
his tongue,” said the good-natured curé, whose anger
was never very durable, at the same time turning
round to the monk and nodding with a smile
of approbation; “if I could have him aneath my
thumb a while, to teach him the humanities and the
golden tongues, he might, peradventure, do honour
to my instructions; as it is, he is, I opine, but
game for the gallows.”

Zacharie, who did not relish this speech, was
about to reply with some pertness, when the monk,
fixing upon him his piercing eyes with a steady
gaze until he quailed beneath them, said sternly,

“A truce, boy, to this rudeness, and know better

the respect due to age. If you are to be my
guide to St. Therese, mount and ride; and if that
saucy tongue be not more civil on the way, you
will find you have to deal with a hound, to use your
own figure, which can both bark and bite.”

The boy, whose natural acuteness of observation
led him to estimate properly the ludicrous points
in the character of the simple-minded curé, although
incapable of appreciating, at the same time, the
excellent qualities of his head and heart, had wit
enough to know, from his stern eye and voice, that
the stranger was a man of different metal, and
that he might, perchance, endanger his personal
comfort by presuming to trifle with him. He
therefore left the room somewhat crestfallen, and,
mounting his horse at the gate, awaited the appearance
of the monk, who remained behind to reward
the services of the faithful Jacques, bargain with
him for the purchase of the furs he had loaned him,
and, at his request, bestow upon him his parting
blessing, confirming with it, in full, the grant of dispensation
for which he had petitioned on the journey.

“Thou'lt see, most worshipful,” said Jacques,
stroking his chin and looking straightforward with
a fierce aspect, “when next thou comest our way,
how bravely I'll swear by my beard! I shall not
sleep the night for thinking on't. If Luc Giles
don't take his fish to another market, then call me
jack-fool. So good-e'en to ye, father,” he continued,
lifting his bonnet as the monk mounted his
horse, “and the saints send ye on the way to the
worshipful pope ere he die. It would be an awful
circumstance for the great pope to die in his sins!”
he added, devoutly crossing himself.

“God assoilzie him!” ejaculated the pious curé,

mechanically, without any very definite intelligence
whom his prayers were to benefit.

“Father,” added Jacques, while assisting the
traveller to adjust his stirrups, and covering his feet
with the fur of his capote, “keep a tight rein on
thy mare, and a tighter one on that Satan's brat,
Zacharie Nicol. If thou wouldst keep him in his
place, swear roundly at him by thy beard, or by
mine own, an thou likest, seeing thine is but young,
and he will keep in his proper paces, I'll warrant
me. But, most worshipful,” he added, in a low
tone of voice, taking the rein of the monk's horse
as he was about to ride off, “give not Nick the
dispensation for—”

“What art thou nicking at there in the father's
ear, thou long-eared ass? I'll switch thy beardless
chaps for thee if thou hinder the priest's journey,”
shouted the boy, whose quick ears caught this sacrilegious
abbreviation of his name.

The confounded ex-guide immediately released
his grasp on the bridle, while the monk, bidding
farewell to him and his reverend host, rode briskly
forward past his youthful Mercury, who, before
galloping after him, turned his body half round in
the saddle and shook his whip at the curé, crying,
in his peculiarly shrill voice,

“If thou wilt have a scholar to teach thy Latin
to, Father Duc, thou hast an ass standing beside
thee whom thou mayst teach the tongues, as asses
have been taught to speak ere now.”

“Profane and thankless adolescentulus,” ejaculated
the curé, looking after the boy for an instant
with mingled astonishment and indignation, “ita
vertere seria ludo, the which meaneth,” he added,
turning to the no less shocked Jacques, whom he
surveyed closely for an instant, as if the hint of the
departing Zacharie had not been altogether lost,

and he was estimating his capabilities for receiving
the honours which the lad had so unaccountably
despised, “which meaneth, my son, the making
a jest of sacred things.”

“By my beard!” swore Jacques, after the form
of his successor had fairly disappeared in a winding
of the road, “if I had the limb o' Beelzebub by
the nape o' the neck, an I wouldn't make him think
Luc Giles's claws griped his weasand, may I never
more make oath by my beard!”

Thus delivering himself of his indignation,
Jacques followed the curé into his dwelling, where
we shall, for the present, leave him, either to be
duly inducted into the rudiments of the humanities
by the learned priest, or into the elements of cookery
by the specimen of mother Eve he retained in
his household, as the mental or physical propensities
of the pupil should predominate.

5. CHAPTER V.
THE STORM.

The traveller and his new guide had not measured
three leagues from the hospitable mansion of
Father Ducosse before the short day of the season
closed. The sun, leaving behind a lurid glow,
went down in a thick bank of clouds, and the general
aspect of nature foreboded a storm. The approach
of night, however, did not hinder their journey;
but, moving forward at a round pace, they
only stopped to breathe and bait their horses at the
infrequent inns along their route, if a lonely peasant's

cottage, whose inmates, from hospitality rather
than for lucre, received and entertained the few
travellers who chanced to pass that way, can be
so denominated.

Towards midnight the air became milder, and
the stars, which hitherto had lighted them on their
way, began to fade gradually from the sky, as a
thin white haze spread over it like a veil of gauze.
The moon at length rose through a dense atmosphere,
and soon after the whole heavens became
white with a thick vapour, which totally obscured
her disk, but without sensibly increasing the darkness
of the night. Dark clouds along the horizon
at length began to ascend towards the zenith, and
the winds to sigh through the forests. On observing
these increasing indications of a gathering tempest,
the monk urged forward his horse, and called
to his guide, who lagged behind amusing himself
by striking at the branches above his head, to make
better speed.

“If you use your whip, Zacharie, on your pony's
back, it will be more to the purpose than your
present pastime! How far now to the convent St.
Therese?” he asked.

“A league and a leap, father; but why dost thou
not call me `son' instead of Zacharie? You holy
fathers are ever soning it, as if you'd make up for
your own lacking therein by fathering every beggar's
brat in the land. By my mother's honesty,
'tis a wise son knows his own father when so many
holy fathers call him `son' and `my son.' ”

“You speak not unadvisedly, Zacharie, and 'tis
lest such relationship should be fastened on me
that I omit, in your particular case, this form of
speech.”

“Thou hast more wisdom that I gave thy cloth
credit for, father,” replied the boy, at the same

time, instigated by his restless spirit, making his
horse caricole until he made a demivolt across the
road against the monk, in a manner that would have
sent him from his saddle to the ground if he had
been an indifferent horseman; the catastrophe
which was, no doubt, anticipated by the mischievous
urchin.

“So, so, Paul! So, so!” he began, apologetically,
soothing the animal, “hast thou no better manners
than to thrust thy buttocks 'gainst a holy monk?
By my grandmother's spectacles! thou shalt suffer
purgatory unless thou mend thy manners. Oh,
ciel! ouf!” he suddenly cried out with pain, as the
monk's riding-whip came in contact with his face,
“ai! ah! thou canst use a switch, father, as well
as rosary. Malheur! Thou hast made the fire
fly out o' the eyes o' me, father,” he added, in a
tone that had lost a large portion of its assurance,
and riding cautiously beyond reach of the monk's
whip, “as if they had been flints and thy switch
a steel blade.”

“Then husband your tricks to practise on less
hasty travellers, Zacharie. Here is salve to anoint
your eyes,” he added, good-humouredly, and giving
him a piece of money.

“Callest thou this salve?” said Zacharie, thrusting
the half-crown into his cheek; “if I had eyes
over my body as thick as a peacock has on his tail,
thou mightst have leave to switch away at them,
one at a time, if thou wouldst heal them again with
such ointment.”

“I believe you honest, Zacharie; for once in your
life, I'll be sworn! you have spoken truth. But
forward. We must get under cover before this
storm comes on. How say you, a league farther?”

“A league from that wheezing, rheumatic bridge
we crossed ere thou gavest me that ready cut

across the blinkers. I tell thee, I like thee better for
a blow given in right good-will, when on just provocation,
which I will not say thou hadst not, than
if thou didst mumble prayers in thy hood for my
soul's benefit, as if I were a born heathen, as some
monks I've seen would do, or fling hard Latin at
my head like Father Duc. Were I a man, I would
like to try switches with thee, ay, and steel, didst
thou carry such ungodly gear beneath thy monk's
habit.”

“What do you mean, boy?” inquired the monk,
hastily wrapping his gown closer about his person,
and riding nearer his guide.

“I mean, father,” replied Zacharie, edging farther
off, and shaking his head mysteriously, “that I
spied the hilt of a sword and the gleam of something
like pistol-butts peeping aneath thy gown
when thy fingers were searching for that ointment
thou gavest me.”

“Nay, boy, it was but my rosary and silver crucifix
you saw,” said the monk, drawing from his
bosom and exhibiting, by the faint light, these insignia
of his apparent profession; “these are our
spiritual sword and pistol, my son, with which we
combat the arts of the devil.”

“The devil combat me, then,” said the boy, incredulously,
“if I am fool enough to mistake the
arms of a brave soldier for those of a craven
monk! But thou knowst best, father,” he added,
dryly.

For the next five minutes he busily occupied
himself in switching the ears of his nag, and appeared
to have quite forgotten the subject; and the
monk, adopting the wisest course to put to sleep
any suspicion that he might entertain dangerous
either to his safety or the success of his mission,
ceased to speak any farther upon it. He determined,

however, to watch him closely on his arrival
at the convent, lest he might betray the secret
of his disguise, for he was convinced that the boy
felt satisfied he had not been deceived, although he
might pretend to admit the explanation given him.

The atmosphere continued to thicken above their
heads, and the night grew sensibly darker every
moment. The first approaches of the long-brewing
storm were at length manifested by the occasional
falling of a crystal of snow, which rapidly
increased in size and numbers till the air was
filled with multitudinous flakes, whitening, as they
fell, their shaggy garments, their horses, the branches
of the trees, and the path before them. In a
few minutes the surface of the ground was perfectly
white, and, the wind dying away, the snow
fell in a heavy, noiseless shower, and soon nearly
obliterated all traces of their path. Fearing they
should lose it altogether, they galloped forward,
and, amid a genuine Canadian snowstorm, which
would have rendered it difficult, if not impossible,
to proceed much farther through a forest, every
vestige of which the snow was momently erasing,
while it bewildered them by confusing and obscuring
every object, they arrived at the place of their
destination on the brow of a hill overhanging the
river.

The convent St. Therese, into which we are
about to introduce the reader, was a retreat erected
by one of the religious communities of the capital
as a place of safety or security during the heat of
summer, the prevalence of an epidemic, the dangers
of war, or any event which might render a residence
in the city insecure or inconvenient. It
was, as the travellers discovered on getting close
to it, a quadrangular edifice of brick, one story in
height, with a single square tower rising from the

centre, and surrounded by a low brick wall, enclosing
a lawn ornamented with forest trees. It was
situated on the summit of a cliff rising boldly from
the river, and at the southern extremity of a gorge
a mile in length, through which, at a profound
depth, the river furiously raged over a rocky bed.
Opposite the convent, separated from it by the
river, rose lofty hills covered with forests, with
the jagged face of a rock protruding here and there
from their sides. This site was chosen rather for
the romantic features of the surrounding scenery
than for its capabilities of defence in case of hostile
attack; yet, difficult of access, and commanding the
only road leading through the defile, it was equally
suited either for a religious retirement or a military
fortress. The monastic community was composed,
at the time of our traveller's visit, of four or five
religieuses professées, several novices, the lady superior,
and a father confessor.

“Here, father,” said Zacharie, as they drew up
their weary horses before a gate placed in the wall
surrounding the convent, “here thou'lt find those
that wear the gown as well as thou, and carry
sharper weapons than that crucifix thou tellest of.”

“How mean you, Sir Wisdom?” carelessly asked
the monk, dismounting as he spoke, and lifting a
heavy knocker, which he applied several times
loudly to the solid panel of the gate to which it
was affixed.

“Dost not know, then? but how shouldst thou
know what I mean, being a monk,” said the boy,
with a touch of irony in his voice. “I speak of
the demoiselles whose tongues and eyes are sharper
than the two-edged sword Father Duc preaches
about. Ciel! If thou couldst hear my old dam's
clapper go at times, thou wouldst say ne'er convent
bell rung louder or sword cut sharper. Mercie!

I never see a petticoat but I plug my ears. Hearest
thou not their chattering even now? That
knocker in thy hand has set them to cawing, as
I've heard a roost of crows when I chanced to send
a rock among them.”

“Hush, boy! your tongue would outwoman
them all!” said the monk. Then grasping his
arm as he stood beside him near the gate, he added,
sternly, “While within these walls, if wise, you
will keep your tongue closely within your teeth, or
you will feel a heavier weight than that of my riding-switch.”
As he spoke a light appeared in a
window of the convent, and an individual, thrusting
his head forth, desired to know who disturbed the
repose of the inmates at an hour so untimely.

“A black sheep o'thine own flock, Father Bonaventure,”
shouted Zacharie, in reply, adding, in a
lower voice, “but I think he be a wolf in sheep's
clothing.”

“Boy,” said the monk, in a decided tone, “I
perceive you are aware that I am not what I seem.
Beneath your assumed levity you have a sufficient
share of good sense, which now may be of service
to you. I have here, as you rightly guessed,” he
continued, placing his hand on his sword, “what
will at once release me from all fear of betrayal.
But do not start back. You have no cause for
alarm. I shall not harm a hair of your head. I
will do better, trust to your generosity for preserving
the secret you possess! Have I mistaken
my man?” he added, in a tone of frank and manly
confidence, which, with his language, made its intended
impression on Zacharie, who, with his reckless
and mischievous nature, possessed a generous
spirit and certain inborn sentiments of honour, rude
though they were, and hidden under a heedless exterior,
often allied to such wild and dauntless characters

as his; and the attitude assumed by the monk
at this crisis not only furnished a proof of his
knowledge of human nature, but did honour to his
heart.

“No, thou hast not mistaken me,” replied the
boy, firmly, and with a respectful courtesy in his
voice and manner that surprised the monk; and
then adding, in something like his usual manner,
“be thou priest or soldier, monk or devil, I would
not now betray thee. None shall know from me
thou art other than a mumbling friar, with a beard
a full yard long, hollow eyes, bony cheeks, and
withered to a 'natomy. That thou carriest only
rosary and crucifix I will take my gospel oath.
Father Duc,” he continued, in his usual manner,
“should have trusted me. But he thinks me either
a fool or a knave, or both; but, for that matter, I
never had but little reputation for aught except
evil. Thou art the first man that ever saw in me
other than the horned devil himself. How thou
shouldst know me in one night's ride better than
the old women, priests, and habitans I've lived with
all my life, is odd enough. But thou hast not misplaced
thy confidence; and, for treating me like a
reasonable being as thou hast done, instead of
doing thee an injury, I would fight for thee against
my mother. But one thing I will frankly tell thee,
father,” he said, in a low tone, as a man with a
lantern crossed the lawn to the gate, “that if thou
hadst not placed this confidence in me, but had
sought by threats and offers of violence to ensure
my secrecy, then thou shouldst have swung for it
after, if, as I believe, thou art a spy.”

“Is it a brother who craves our hospitality this
wintry night?” asked, in a sonorous, drawling
voice, a corpulent person, in cowl and gown hastily
thrown on awry, peering as he spoke between the

bars of the gate, and thrusting the lamp through
the interstices to his elbow, to examine the travellers
more nearly, although their persons, wrapped
in furs and whitened with a thick coat of the still
falling snow, were scarcely distinguishable, and
resembled to the vision of the fat priest shaggy
polar bears standing upright on their hind legs as
much as men.

Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, he began
with great deliberation to unlock and disengage the
padlock from the bars which crossed and firmly
secured the double leaves of the gate, and admitted
the travellers and their horses. After closing the
gate he conducted the latter to a range of brick
stalls standing not far from it; and then, leaving
Zacharie to attend to the comfort of the animals,
he led the way, with a sort of limping gait, across
the court to the door of the convent.

“The snow hath somewhat mollified the air,
brother,” he said, as they arrived at the door, “yet
a warm brand may not be amiss. So I bade Sister
Agathe, as I came forth to admit thee, to rake
open the embers in the refectory; thither I will lead
thee. Crooked sticks make even fire; therefore
will Sister Agathe's labours soon expel the cold
from thy limbs.”

So saying, he preceded the traveller through the
door, and entered a narrow passage, turning abruptly
to the left; at the opposite extremity was an open
door, through which they passed into a large apartment
totally dark.

“When the candles are out all cats are gray,” said
the confessor, punching his guest familiarly in the
ribs.

At the farther end of the room was a huge fireplace,
in which, upon a pile of smoking wood, lay
a few coals, the glare of which as they were at intervals

blown up by the asthmatic breath of an aged
female, who, with a religious habit flung in rude
dishabille over her shoulders, was on her hands
and knees before it, served, in conjunction with the
faint light of the lantern held by the host, to increase
the cheerless gloom of the large apartment
instead of dissipating the darkness.

“Sister Agathe,” said the priest, or father confessor,
as more correctly he should be denominated,
“thou hast but a cold fire for cold travellers.”

“Rome was not built in a day,” growled the old
crone.

“Neither,” he added, with some severity, “now
that I view thee more closely, is thy attire becoming
the presence of strangers. Hie thee to thy
cell, woman, and complete thy toilet, and then see
that couches are prepared in the guest's lodge. I
myself will take thy place at the hearth.”

“Let not thy tongue cut thy throat,” retorted the
woman, with asperity, as she shuffled out of the
room.

“A fool's bolt is soon shot,” rejoined Father Bonaventure,
as she departed.

A bright blaze soon rewarded him for the unusual
and lavish expenditure of wind from his capacious
lungs. After the traveller and Zacharie,
who had returned from the stable and was fast
asleep on the hearth, had sufficiently partaken of
its genial heat, the former proceeded to make known
his errand to his host.

“You are, worthy father,” he said, suddenly
turning, and bending his eyes full upon him, “a
good Catholic, and have the welfare of church and
state at heart, I trust?”

“Heaven forbid it should be otherwise, brother,”
answered the priest with quickness, suspiciously

eying his guest from the corner of one eye as he
sat beside him. Then crossing his fat hands over
his puncheon-like person, while he twirled his
thumbs, as if perplexed at the question, he asked,

“Why, why puttest thou such a query to me,
brother?”

“Are you well affected towards the present government,
father?” interrogated the monk, without
appearing to regard his question.

Father Bonaventure hitched his person along
the bench, and eyed the monk from head to feet, as
if he expected to see horns, or a hoof at the very
least, while his features were agitated by a complex
expression of mingled distrust and confidence.
The former sentiment at length predominated, and
with a voice and manner partly the effect of his
fears and suspicions, and partly assumed as a feeler
to fathom the purpose of his interrogator without
politically committing himself, he said,

“Avoid thee, Sathanas! wouldst thou ensnare
me to my own hurt?”

“Not so, father,” replied the monk, smiling, and
at once comprehending the ruse; “I am the bearer
of weighty news from Father Etienne, whom I left
last night. His name should be a key to confidence
between us. I touched your pulse with a
question or two, good father, for my own private
satisfaction, before I opened my business.”

“Verily, thou didst somewhat alarm me,” replied
Father Bonaventure, drawing a long breath, as if a
great weight had suddenly fallen from his breast;
“I thought thee an inquisitor of government, and,
as I have been of late somewhat given to insurgent
speech and opinions, I feared the worst. Yea,
verily, `the guilty fleeth when no man pursueth.'
Thou bearest with thee, brother, doubtless, some
writing or token that I may confer with thee in

safety touching the matter which thou wouldst
open to me?”

“I do. It is—the Chevalier de Levi!”

“Then thou art doubly welcome,” said Father
Bonaventure, moving back to his former place near
his guest, and warmly grasping his hand. All distrust
instantly disappeared from his jocund physiognomy,
and was replaced by an air of profound
mystery, nowise diminished by the significant application,
as he looked at his guest, of the fore finger
of his left hand to the side of a nose of the most
formidable dimensions.

After a long conference in relation to the expected
invasion, the monk, not having thought it
prudent to undeceive his host in the opinion he entertained
of his sacerdotal character, was conducted
by him to a comfortable and well-furnished
cell in a distant part of the convent. On taking
leave of him for the night and commending him to
the protection of St. Therese, the father assured
him that he should be furnished in the morning
with a guide and a carriole, for the snow would
render such a mode of travelling necessary, to convey
him to the St. Lawrence.

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE MATINS.

The ensuing morning our traveller was roused
from his short repose by the loud tolling of the
convent bell for matins, and the voice of Father
Bonaventure at the outside of the door of his dormitory.

“Wilt thou not up to morning prayer, brother?
I will attend thee to our little oratory, where we
are wont to commence the duties of the day with
orisons.”

“I thank you, brother, for so carefully watching
over my spiritual welfare,” replied the monk, rising
from the bed on which he had thrown himself,
without laying aside his disguise, and opening the
door; “I have had brief time for sleep; yet two
or three hours snatched from the twenty-four is
enough for youth, though hardly sufficient for age
like yours. I fear I broke in somewhat roughly
on your repose last night.”

“Not a whit, not a whit, brother. `It is not
wise to wake a sleeping lion,' saith the old proverb,
but the contrary may perchance be true of a sleeping
friar. Hey, brother?” said the confessor, chuckling
at his own happy conceit, and glancing at his
guest for applause, rubbing the while his hands together
to keep them warm by the friction.

“I will, nevertheless, try and atone for my intrusion
in some degree by making a speedy departure,”
observed the monk.

“Not so, good brother, not so; I would have
thee abide here as long as it may suit thy convenience.
Thy companionship will be most welcome.
It is ill biding alone among womankind;
to hold colloquy with poor silly creatures like Sister
Agathe, on whose dull senses wise words are
cast away, like the throwing of goodly pearls before
swine; and, moreover, she is deaf as a mosquenonge.”

“Is Sister Agathe the only companion of your
solitude, brother?” inquired the monk, in an indifferent
tone, of Father Bonaventure, as he slowly
led the way through the gallery, his locomotion

somewhat retarded by the spherical honours of his
outward man and a gouty halt in his left leg.

“Marry is she not!” he replied, looking back
over his shoulder, his portly dimensions not permitting
his guest to walk beside him in the passage.
“First there is the superior (between us,
brother, she would be more properly denominated
the `inferior'), whose physiognomy is compounded
of a squint and a twisted nose; and, moreover, she
suffereth under that curse to the sex, red hair;
these attractions, keeping lovers at a proper distance,
drove her, at the discreet age of thirty-five,
to take the veil; verily, a wise covering for such a
frontispiece.”

“And does this tempting specimen of the sex
comprise, with Sister Agathe, all your household,
brother?” asked the monk, gravely.

“By St. Therese, no, good brother! There are
some half dozen religieuses who are full of the
odour of sanctity; dried and withered from prayer
and fasting. Hang them up in the wind, and it
would whistle an ave through their bones. The
very floor creaks credo when they move across it.
A mouse might wear their consciences in his breast
and not sin. Yet, saints ha' mercy, brother! for
want of sins to confess—for the kind must ever be
chattering—they puzzle their brains to conjure up
vain imaginings, and din half-hatched iniquities into
mine ears. I believe they would all turn murderers
and robbers to have one good round sin to bring up
to confession.”

“Truly, you have a trying time of it, brother,”
replied the monk, in a sympathizing tone, as Father
Bonaventure paused to take breath, and draw a
long sigh of pitiable distress, as he poured his
griefs into a brother's willing ear; “your circumstances
call for the virtue of patience.”

“Assuredly do they, brother,” said Father Bonaventure,
stopping full at the door of the chapel and
taking his guest by the sleeve, “assuredly do they!
There is Sister Ursule, as straight, thin, fleshless
an anatomy as the breath of life ever flitted about
in, comes to me with a holy smile that would turn
a mug of new ale to vinegar, and says, forsooth,
she must confess to me under seal, having sinned
to her soul's damage and the church's scandal.
And what think you,” he continued, with the air
of a man seriously and grievously distressed, at the
same time looking his guest full in the eyes with
a serio-comic expression, “what think you, brother,
this great iniquity proved to be, after all?”

“I cannot well guess,” replied the monk, surveying
with a smile the fat, round bulk of the confessor,
“unless it were that the frail Ursule cast
forbidden glances on your goodly person.”

“Verily, thou hast guessed it, shrewd brother;
but, Heaven be thanked, Dan Cupid had no finger
in her holy thoughts,” he devoutly ejaculated.
“When I urged her to unburden her conscience,
she says to me, with much sighing and whispering,
`Reverend father, while I chanced to elevate my
eyes at vespers, they fell upon thy reverend whiskers”'
(here Father Bonaventure complacently
stroked these not altogether uncomely appendages
to his cheeks), “`and, tempted by the devil, I
bethought me, in the midst of a paternoster, if
holy and youthful St. Timothy's sacred cheeks
had whiskers for adornment like thine own.' Mis
éricorde!” added the father, fetching a deep suspiration,
between a sigh and a groan, as he opened
the door of the chapel and ushered in his guest,
“these women will be my death. One good round
sin of a godless freebooter were better worth listening
to the confession of than all the milk-and-water

peccadilloes of a regiment of pale-eyed religieuses,
such as daily weary out my soul and wear the flesh
from my poor bones.”

“Of a truth, you have kept the good wine until
now, good Brother Bonaventure,” whispered the
monk, as his eyes at that moment encountered a
bevy of novices, one or two with their veils, perhaps,
drawn artfully aside, and their lovely features
eloquent with curiosity as their glances were directed
towards the opening door, kneeling around
the altar of the oratory.

“Callest thou that good wine?” responded Father
Bonaventure, interrogatively, and in the same
low tone of voice, following the direction of the
monk's eyes with his own, “thou art no judge of
grapes, brother. Marry come up! They are every
soul possessed with a born devil, and give me more
disquiet than so many bear-cubs turned loose within
the convent walls. Alas! I fear they are given
over to the power of the prince of darkness, for
their hearts are prone to mischief as the sparks fly
upward. If thou wilt in part ease me of my burden,
brother, and, after prayers, take upon thyself
the confession of the tamest of them, demure as
they now look, thou wilt soon be wearied body and
soul with them, and be ready to open window, and
bid them fly with God's blessing, and leave thee to
collect thy wits together in peace, as ere now I
have prayed them to do. Good wine, is't? The
ass that carries the wine drinks but water.”

Thus speaking, the reverend father confessor,
whose constitutional indolence, combined with the
active consciences of his charges, left him, according
to his own relation of his grievances, little leisure
to attend to the thrift of his own body or
soul, and peace neither to the one nor the other, but
who, nevertheless, went good-naturedly grumbling

through life, advanced with a slow pace to the
altar, mumbling, as he passed them, a morning salutation
to the devotees, and opened the service of
the hour.

The oratory or chapel within which the monk
was introduced constituted the basement story of
the tower, the diameter of whose area was about
eighteen feet. The ceiling, which overhead was
raised several feet higher than the sides of the
oratory, was overspread with a covering of crimson
silk, radiating from a silver star in the centre
of the dome, in folds or plaits, like an immense circular
fan. Extending on every side to the extremities
of the room, it fell in hangings, bordered with
deep fringes, to the floor, concealing the brick sides
of the tower, and presenting altogether the novelty
of a silken pavilion within the walls of a convent;
a unique and costly tabernacle, illustrating, even
in this rural retreat, that taste and lavish expense
characteristic of Roman Catholics in all ages and
in all countries.

At the left of the door by which Father Bonaventure
and his guest entered stood a small altar of
black marble, surmounted by a white slab of the
same material. Several candles burned upon it,
and in the midst of them was a crucifix; the cross
only a few inches in height but of massive silver,
and the effigy of the Redeemer of fine gold. On
the right of the altar stood a mahogany confessional-box,
and on the left a low pulpit, from which
the father confessor occasionally pronounced homilies
to his little congregation. Before the altar,
awaiting the commencement of the morning service,
kneeled, in two semicircles, the females composing
his limited audience. Those who kneeled
nearest to the sanctuary were evidently the religieuses;
sisters, in age and tenderness of conscience,

to the Sister Ursule. The second row, and
that farthest from the chancel, evidently consisted
of that branch of Father Bonaventure's flock which,
in his opinion, were given over to the delusions of
sin.

They were seven in number, mystic emblems,
no doubt, of the Pleiades, at least so thought the
youthful monk; and fourteen bright eyes glanced
round and rested upon him as he followed Father
Bonaventure into the oratory, for the presence of
a stranger in the convent was not of such frequent
occurrence as to render the curiosity of females
living so retired from the world either torpid or
indifferent. In its gratification in this instance,
however, they received a check from the eye and
voice of a middle-aged female, with a sour visage,
kneeling a little in advance of them, whose physiognomical
details answered so closely to the worthy
Father Bonaventure's vivid description of the lady
superior, that the stranger was at no loss in fixing
her identity.

The oratory had no aperture for admitting the
light from without, and, except when the candles
were burning during morning and evening service,
or the performance of mass on saints' days, it remained,
save the partial illumination of a solitary
taper burning in a chased vessel of oil set before
the crucifix, in a state perfectly dark. Father
Bonaventure commenced the usual service of the
morning with habitual readiness and indifference,
hurrying through it as if anxious to bring it to a
speedy termination; while the monk, who had declined
his invitation to assist him on the plea of
fatigue, kneeled reverently by the chancel, and, as
it happened, on account of the small dimensions of
the area before the altar, near the line of novices.

During the prayers his attention was drawn to

the remarkably sweet and musical voice of the novice
nearest to him, as she repeated, in a low tone,
the customary prayers and portions of the service.
Instigated by curiosity to see the lips from which
such melodious accents flowed, and behold the
features of one whom his youthful and romantic
admiration already assured him must be surpassingly
fair, he put back his cowl and partly turned
his face to glance beneath her veil. The movement,
gentle as it was, attracted her notice, and
produced a corresponding change of her own attitude,
and their eyes met.

For an instant, as if fascinated, her gaze rested
full upon his dark, expressive eyes, which became
softened and subdued, as such eyes are wont to be
when they encounter the glance of youth and
beauty; at the same time they beamed with that
ardent and passionate admiration which the vanity
of a beautiful woman will not allow her to misconstrue.
For a moment, and for a moment only, she
forgot the nun in the woman. A blush instantly
suffused her cheeks, and, bending her head in confusion,
she hastily veiled a face which he, nevertheless,
had time to see was eminently lovely; and
then resumed, with a gentle suspiration which did
not escape his ear, and with renewed earnestness,
her momentarily forgotten devotions.

In a few minutes afterward the services of the
morning closed, and both novices and religieuses,
rising from the altar, followed in slow procession
the stern superior, who deigned to cast a glance
neither upon the father confessor nor the monk, and
disappeared through a door hitherto concealed
behind the arras, and opposite to that by which
Father Bonaventure and his guest had entered.

“Take thou the chair of confessional, brother,”
said Father Bonaventure, breathing freely, like a

man relieved by the termination of irksome duties,
as his flock were leaving the chapel; “the greatest
sinner of them all will soon be back, if for no
better purpose, at least to have an opportunity of
using her tongue; shallow waters being, as thou
knowst, always the most noisy.”

As the last novice left the chapel, she did not
fail, before dropping the folds of the tapestry from
her hand, to cast a timid glance towards the stranger
whose piercing eyes had so dangerously encountered
her own, no less brilliant and piercing,
but tempered with the softness of the gazelle's.

“Time presses, worthy brother,” replied the
monk, turning away his lingering gaze from the
spot where the graceful figure of the novice had
disappeared, and fixing it upon the very different
figure of Father Bonaventure, “and I may not
delay a longer space than it will consume to prepare
some mode of conveyance. I will break my
fast with you, and then leave your hospitable roof.”

“It will be difficult journeying, brother,” replied
the priest; “thou hast not looked forth this morning.
Come with me, though the ascent be somewhat
precipitous, and I will show thee the road thou
must travel; and, peradventure, when thou seest
its condition, thou wilt doubtless think it an argument
in favour of sojourning with me for a yet
longer space. Follow, brother: the penitents may
await our return; 'twill teach them patience. Patience,
saith the proverb, is a good plaster.”

Thus speaking, he raised the hangings and led
the way through a passage between them and the
bare walls to a small staircase that wound spirally
to the summit of the tower. The Father Bonaventure
caused his guest to mount the steps in
advance, while, step after step, slowly and laboriously,
he followed him towards the top.

“Fair and softly, fair and softly, good brother,”
he said, as his guest began to ascend with a light
step, “hasty climbers get sudden falls. The more
haste the worse speed, saith the proverb. No
human abode should be more than one story above
ground.” At length the monk emerged from the
dark stairway upon a small rectangle a few feet
square, so completely monopolized by a bell, with
its wheel, axle, and other apparatus, that there was
left but little room for him, and none for the capacious
dimensions of Father Bonaventure: he was
content to remain at the head of the stairs, with his
head thrust through the trapdoor, while his guest
looked forth from the latticed window which extended
quite around the belfry.

“Will you not come up, brother?” archly inquired
the monk of his host, whose round face was
thrust up through the aperture; “without your aid
I cannot profit by my elevated station.”

“I need not, I need not, brother,” answered
Father Bonaventure, retaining his position, and
still breathing heavily; “look forth, and thou canst
see what I would point out to thee; three good feet
of November snow on the earth, and the road thou
art to travel about as plain as the path left by a
boat on the water. Hugh! this coming up stairs
is dreadful. I am of opinion, brother, that man
was not physically constituted to go up hill or up
stairs. The effort that nature makes at such times
to sustain the forced exertion of the muscles proves
clearly that it is unnatural. Stairs are the devil's
own invention. But what seest thou? Art satisfied
that thou wilt have to be my guest yet a while
longer?”

As the monk looked forth from the window the
sun was just rising in cloudless radiance, but there
was no warmth in his beams. The prospect he

surveyed was strikingly different from that which
he contemplated when first introduced to the reader,
gazing down, from an overhanging hill, into the
lovely valley of the Chaudiere. The face of the
earth was now totally changed. The green mantle
of summer and the graver robe of autumn had
given way to the winding-sheet that winter had
thrown over the dying year! A stratum of snow
lay deep in the glen, whitening the leafless forests
and enveloping the frozen river as if it had lain
upon the solid earth. Not a trace of the path he
had travelled the night previous, except where the
absence of trees might indicate its direction, was
visible to his eye. In one short night winter had
laid field, forest, and river under the dominion of
his hoary sceptre! Not a bird broke the silence of
the morning; the flocks and herds were safely
housed; and, save a hare bounding lightly over the
snow, or a little flock of sparrows flitting upon its
surface, not a quadruped, or a loiterer of the feathered
tribe, and not a human being or living creature
was visible throughout the whole scope of his
vision. Stern desolation alone reigned over the
inhospitable scene.

“How great the change! how infinite the contrast
of the present scene,” said the monk, mentally,
“with that I beheld but yesterday! The
glory of the summer forests, the golden harvest-field,
the lowing of the kine, and the song of the
happy peasant, all have departed—”

“Brother,” said Father Bonaventure, interrupting
his train of thought, “thou seest, doubtless,
what comfort awaits thee abroad. That snow lies
two feet deep on the ground if it lay an inch.
Neither burline, traineau, nor carriole can move
the length of a rosary till the road is somewhat
broken up by heavy sleds, and the sun settles the
snow.”

“But I can take horse, brother, as I came,”
said the monk, in a confident tone.

“Thou couldst not travel a mile an hour on
horseback through such a snow; thou wouldst do
better to take to snowshoes.”

“That I will do, if there is no other alternative,”
persevered the guest, “for forward I must, let the
difficulties be what they may. If the road is to be
broken, some one must be the first to break it, and
why not I as well as another? If it is passable for
one man it also is for me. Look you, brother,” he
added, hastily, “come a step higher, and bend
your eyes through the lower part of the lattice, and
tell me what you see.”

The father confessor raised himself till his eyes
were on a level with the lower crevice of the window,
and looked in the direction indicated by his
guest.

“Speak, brother. What do you discern?” asked
the monk, exultingly.

“By St. Therese! I spy three, nay, four men
on horseback far down the glen,” replied the father,
looking into the face of his guest with something
like surprise visible in his features; “do I see
rightly, brother?”

“You see rightly,” replied the monk; “four
mounted men, half a league off, are travelling
thither through the snow, the difficulties of which
your hospitality, brother, has led you to magnify
somewhat. They seem to travel at a good round
pace, nevertheless. This is fortunate. If they
pass by and continue on farther, I shall have my
road broken before me. 'Tis a special interposition
of Heaven, brother. Dost not think so?” he
added, pleasantly.

“By St. Therese, 'tis a miracle!” answered
Father Bonaventure in a disappointed tone; “but

a miracle of Beelzebub's own making. Here I
thought to keep thee at least till to-morrow or
the day after. Well, God makes and the tailor
shapes. 'Tis an ill wind blows nobody good.
'Tis folly to fret when grief's no comfort;” and,
thus comforting himself with proverbs, Father Bonaventure
prepared to descend the stairs of the
tower.

“Beware, brother,” said the monk, as Father
Bonaventure's bald crown slowly disappeared
through the scuttle; “facilis descensus Averni,
as worthy Brother Ducosse would have it, not that
I would intimate that your oratory is the Avernus
to which Maro alludes.”

“Maro Virgilius was a heathen,” said the confessor,
as he carefully descended the stairs, perfectly
assuring himself of the safety of one foot
before he put down the other, progressing something
as we have seen children three years old
when performing the same feat. “I marvel much
Brother Ducosse should be so given to quoting
heathenish sayings. He endangereth thereby his
soul's wellbeing. But, brother, if thou wilt travel
after I have shown thee the road, why, then, go, and
the saints be with thee. 'Tis hard to make a wild
goose lay a tame egg. Youth is ever more hasty
than wise, and a little pot is soon hot. Go thou
into the confessional,” he added, as they reached
the door of the chapel; “two mornings in the
week do the sisters confess, and this is one of them.
While thou art shriving the penitents I will be
making preparations for thy departure. Heaven
send thee patience this morning, brother, for, verily,
thou wilt need it. But methinks thou art somewhat
young to be made a father confessor; but
what sayeth the proverb, `'tis not the cowl that
makes the friar, nor the cap that makes the cardinal.'
”

Thus speaking, the oracular Father Bonaventure
drew aside the hangings, and, thrusting the monk
in, said, “Go in, and, by St. Therese, make clean
hearts o' them; new brooms sweep clean.”

Then hobbling away with his usual rolling gait,
which the monk, as he followed him with his eyes,
thought resembled more the waddling of a duck
than the walk of a reverend priest, he disappeared
through a door opening from the gallery, while the
new confessor, putting aside the arras, found himself
once more within the dimly-lighted chapel.

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE CONFESSOR.

On entering the chapel the monk paused a moment
to contemplate the circumstances in which
he was so unexpectedly placed by the request of
Father Bonaventure. In his first interview he had
not undeceived him respecting his ostensible clerical
character. When the proposal of officiating in
the confessional closet in his stead was made by
the father on their way into the chapel, he had resolved,
if further urged upon the subject, which he
did not anticipate, to escape by some subterfuge,
or, if it should become necessary, disclose his disguise.
But the lovely vision of the oratory, acting
upon a highly romantic imagination and feelings
sufficiently susceptible, at once, with the potency
of a magician's wand, overthrew his well-formed
resolutions, which had originated in a species of
chivalric honour and a certain reverence for religion,

and he determined to play the father confessor
for a time if again solicited, trusting that his
good fortune might place him once more within
the influence of those brilliant eyes whose glances
had penetrated his heart, and in the hearing of that
sweet voice whose accents had captivated his
senses.

Nevertheless, when he found himself alone within
the chapel, where no thoughts should have intruded
save those that had the Supreme Being
for their object, its dim religious light, the solemn
pomp of the altar, the sacred vessels dedicated to
the worship of the Creator, the touching image of
Him who “bowed his head and died,” and the deep
silence, like that of a tomb, all conspired to impress
his mind with the awful character of the
place, and send the blood with guilty violence to
his brow. With a quick pulse and a conscious
feeling of guilt he hesitated to proceed to the extent
proposed by the father confessor, and for a
moment trembled at his own daring impiety, and
at the thought of so sacrilegious an assumption of
holy duties. His step faltered, and he was half
persuaded to turn back. But while he lingered,
with his hand upon the silken curtain before the
door by which he had entered, a slight motion of
the hangings opposite, at the place where the lovely
novice had disappeared, terminated his indecision.
Dropping the curtain, he said abruptly, as
if he would effectually silence the troublesome
monitor within,

“ 'Tis a masquerade and mummery all, so I'll
in and take the chances Cupid sends me;” and,
crossing the space before the altar, he hastily entered
the confessional and closed the door.

He had scarcely concealed himself when the
arras was drawn aside, and a veiled female entered

the chapel. After sanctifying her brow with the
holy water that stood in a vase by the entrance,
with a readiness which appeared the result of habit,
she approached the confessional-box, not omitting
an additional sign of the cross upon her bosom as
she glided past the crucifix, and silently kneeled
on the low step beneath its lattice. A solitary lamp,
that burned night and day, the emblem of that
“light which has come into the world to save sinners,”
shed its pale rays through the chapel, rendering
remote objects and the form of the penitent
dim and indistinct.

“Father, thy blessing!” she said, in a low monotonous
voice, but as unlike that of the youthful
novice, thought the disappointed confessor, as the
croaking of the penfrog to the melody of the night-ingale.

By a train of reasoning not unfrequently employed
by young men in the affairs of the heart,
the young soldier had jumped to a conclusion, for
which, without sounder premises, the logic of the
schools could have given him no authority, which
was, that the first and only penitent must be the
dark-eyed novice. His present disappointment
was therefore proportionate to his confidence in the
soundness of his reasoning, wherein his hopes out-weighed
probability; more especially as the novice,
unless some bird had carried it to her ear, or she
had learned it by that refinement of instinct which
the female heart in such cases wonderfully exhibits,
could not have been aware of this very desirable
change of father confessors. He nevertheless
determined to abide by his present fate, and
outgeneral dame Fortune by resorting to his own
wits for improving the aspect of affairs. He therefore,
in a voice disguised to imitate, so far as possible,
the burlesque grunts of Father Bonaventure,

in which he was materially aided by the close sides
of the confessional, replied to the kneeling penitent,

“Thou hast my blessing, daughter. Relieve thy
soul, and briefly. A short horse is soon curried; a
short shrift and a long fast. Say on.”

“I have grievously sinned, father, both in thought
and deed,” said the penitent, plaintively, sighing
as if her heartstrings would give way, and then
pausing to await the effect of her words upon her
confessor.

“Confess first thy sin of thought, daughter,” he
said, in an encouraging tone of voice.

“Yester eve,” began the penitent, readily, as if
happy at the opportunity of using her tongue, arranging
her veil and settling herself more easily in
her kneeling posture, “yester eve, when novice
Eugenie was threading my needle (for I was working
at the broidery for the covering to thy escritoir,
father) she said—for thou knowst, father,
these young novices lately come from Quebec are
not discreet and maidenly in their deportment, as,
without mentioning my sinful and unworthy self,
those who have been a somewhat longer space of
time wedded to holy church: well, as I was saying,
father, these young girls are full of all manner
of iniquitous thoughts, and their vain hearts follow
after the devices of their evil imaginations continually;
and,” added she, raising her hands in holy
horror, “they think about men, father! not such
as thyself, who art as harmless as a dove, and whom
I pray the Virgin will protect; for, alas! if thou
shouldst be taken from us—”

“Thy sin! thy sin of thought, daughter!” interrupted
the impatient confessor, as his penitent began
to lose sight of her own sins in her horror at
those of others, and in her solicitude for her confessor;

“this worldly-minded novice Eugenie!
what has she to do with thy sins or thee?”

“As I was saying, father, novice Eugenie, worldly-minded,
as thou justly sayst, was threading my
needle for the broidery, for thou knowst thy escritoir—”

“I know, I know, daughter; keep to thy confession,”
interrupted the monk, in his impatience
with difficulty disguising his voice; “this novice!
what said she?”

“She said, father—it's a sin to repeat it, for I
blush even to think of it—she said, and so loud, too,
that old Agathe, who was sweeping the room, could
have heard her if she hadn't been deaf, that she
wished that thou, even thyself, holy father! wert
a youthful knight in disguise. No wonder you
start, father; the saints preserve us! was such like
ever heard of? May St. Therese guard her household!
is my prayer,” she concluded, devoutly
crossing herself.

“Amen!” responded the confessor, in a voice
that appeared to have come from the very bottom
of Father Bonaventure's chest. “What said she
further, daughter?”

“As I was saying, father, when you interrupted
me,” glibly continued the religieuse, “she said she
wished you were a disguised knight like a certain
brave young Norman warrior, Sir Walter de Lancy
by name, whom she says she once read of in
a sinful romaunt. This comes of reading godless
romances, father; thank the Virgin, I can say I
never committed that sin! She said this Walter
de Lancy loved a novice—no doubt just such a
pert, graceless thing as this Eugenie—and, for love
of her, got himself admitted into the convent disguised
as the holy father confessor, whom he shut
up in a tower in his own castle till he had told the

silly novice he loved her, and prevailed on her to
run away with him and marry him, as I have no
doubt, and I would say it on the cross, that novice
Eugenie herself would do if she could have the
opportunity. Was ever such scandal heard of,
father, as this deed of that godless Norman knight?”

“Impious and daring youth! He is now, no
doubt, doing penance in purgatory for a crime so
unparalleled,” replied the monk, in a severe tone of
voice.

“I trust he is, father; such sacrilegious conduct
should be punished as an example,” responded the
penitent, with that tempered exultation which became
humility; “but, then, what think you this
novice Eugenie said, father? Well, she said she
wished that Norman knight was alive now, and
would come into the convent in disguise, and confess
the household instead of you. The minx! no
doubt, in that case, she thinks she'd be the novice.
But, if thou wert the Norman, father, thou wouldst
know better,” she continued, in tones meant to be
very insinuating, “than to be taken with such
silly, and, withal, sinful children as these novices
are. That thou wouldst.”

“Thou sayst well, daughter,” replied the confessor,
in a tone of voice modelled on her own; “if
I were that sacrilegious Norman of whom thou
speakst—”

“Not I, father, not I! the novice Eugenie,” she
said, hastily.

“Well, the novice Eugenie: if I were him of
whom she speaks, I should make choice of one
more discreet and experienced; one, I think, of
about thy own age, daughter.”

“I knew thou wouldst, father,” she said, triumphantly.
“But was't not a great sin for this novice
to listen to this Norman?”

“Verily was it, daughter,” answered the monk,
solemnly, “and she is, no doubt, enduring at this
moment painful penance with him in purgatory.”

“With him, father? that can be no penance if
they are together,” she said, in a tone of disapprobation.

“In purgatory they neither know nor are known,
my daughter,” said the monk, mildly. “Now proceed
in thy confession. A willing mind makes a
light heel.”

“When novice Eugenie said she wished you
were the handsome young Norman knight, I said,
father,” here the voice of the penitent was lowered
to a very confidential key, while her lips approached
rather closer to the lattice than was customary,
“that I thought thee young and handsome enough
as thou wert, and I, for one, would rather have Father
Bonaventure for my lover than the comeliest
knight, be he Norman or whoever he be, that ever
broke lance.”

Here a deep sigh, partaking, as the monk thought,
equally of the penitential and of the amorous, concluded
the first division, or the sin in thought, of
the penitent's confession.

“Sister Ursule, for, though I behold not thy face,
such thy words bespeak thee to be,” said the monk,
shooting a random, but, as the result showed, a successful
arrow, “although thy sin is great, in as
much as thou hast suffered thy thoughts to wander
to my poor person instead of confining them to thy
crucifix, nevertheless it may be atoned for by a
penance commensurate with its enormity. I enjoin,
therefore, upon thee six additional paternosters
and twelve ave marias over and above thy
customary devotions; and, moreover, that thou come
not to confession for a week to come, and never, by
word or look, put me again in remembrance of this

morning's confession. Now relate thy sin in deed,
daughter.”

“Alas, reverend father,” sighed the penitent religieuse,
“how can I utter my own shame! This
morning, while at mass, I lifted my eyes and gazed
for at least ten seconds on the face of the holy
monk at present sojourning in the convent.”

“Thou, woman?” exclaimed the monk, thrown
off his guard by surprise and chagrin, while the
penitent recoiled from the lattice with an incipient
scream of alarm.

He immediately, however, recovered his presence
of mind, which had suddenly deserted him at
the bare possibility of the identity of the ancient
religieuse Ursule with the lovely novice of the
oratory, whose features he had indistinctly seen,
and whose voice he had but once heard. But a
moment's reflection convinced him of the absurdity
of such a supposition, and in the gruffest tones of
Father Bonaventure he said,

“The enormity of thy offence, daughter, hath
moved me, even to the giving utterance to my indignation
in a strange tongue, as did the saints of
old, as thou hast heard me expound to thee from
scripture. But wherefore didst thou let thy
thoughts, nay, thy eyes, lead thee into sin?”

“It was, father,” replied the penitent, who had
resumed her original attitude at the lattice, in an
apologetic tone, “solely for the good of novice
Eugenie, knowing her thoughts are ever world-ward.
Somehow, when the strange monk kneeled
so close beside her, I could not get the Norman
knight out of my head, and so I naturally looked at
him, and then I looked at her, and all at once, father,
I saw them both turn and look at each other, and I
never saw holy man look so pitifully as he looked
on her bold face, as if he knew her failing. I was

glad to see she had the grace to veil her head, though
I had not given her credit for so much discretion.
Forsooth,” she added, with a toss of her head, “I
shouldn't wonder if the forward chit thought it was
the bold Norman knight she is ever talking about,
since that godless romaunt fell into her hands, who
had come and kneeled himself down beside her, as
if he would look at such a silly child when there
were others to pick and choose from.”

“Thou sayst well, daughter,” said the confessor;
“and now, in regard to this second offence
of thine, which thou hast done wisely to confess so
readily, I enjoin thee, first, to keep all the religieuses
in their rooms, and, also, all the novices, save the
novice Eugenie, for one hour to come. Eugenie I
command you to send forthwith to take thy place
at the confessional; for she hath merited not only
penance, but a severe reprimand, having not only
sinned herself, but tempted thee, holy sister, to
commit sin, both in thought, word, and deed. But
thou art released from thine offences on the performance
of the slight penances I have enjoined
upon thee. Bénédicité, daughter! Go send the
novice Eugenie into the oratory.”

The religieuse Ursule rose from her knees, her
heart lightened of a heavy burden by this free confession
of her great sins and the father's forgiveness,
which, like a devout Catholic, she believed
to be registered in heaven. We venture to hope
that we shall not be thought uncharitable towards
so sincere a penitent and discreet maiden as Sister
Ursule, if we hint that her heart was also, in no
very slight degree, lightened, and her spirits elated,
by the contemplation of the picture which her active
imagination painted, in colours indifferently well
laid on, as if envy herself had handled the brush,
of the disgrace awaiting the offending novice Eugenie.

Never did penitent hasten to perform allotted
penance with the alacrity with which Sister
Ursule disappeared from the chapel to fulfil that
item of hers contained in the last clause of the confessor's
injunction; an item, it will be remembered,
especially relating to that worldly-minded, knight-loving
Eugenie, whose numerous sins and unnovice-like
peccadilloes were a thorn in the flesh of
that holy, charitable, and discreet religieuse.

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE NOVICE.

The silence that followed the disappearance of
the religieuse Ursule on her penitential mission
was passed by the young confessor in brief reflections
upon the nature and tendency of his present
employment. No sophistry with which he fortified
himself, through questioning the genuineness of the
Roman faith and ridiculing the act of confession,
could aid him in silencing certain severe mental
strictures upon the part he was acting in the sacred
relation of a guest, and under a guise to which he
was indebted for his safety and the hospitality he
was abusing. Neither of these could deter him
from prosecuting an amour, if a wayward impulse,
having, perhaps, no definite aim or other purpose
than the indulgence of a romantic temperament,
could with strictness be so denominated.

“I am aware,” he said, “that I am playing a
part both dangerous and censurable, and which my
conscience refuses to defend; but I have gone too

far to recede, and my object is certainly innocent.
If the scales are to be so nicely adjusted, I think
the penances I have enjoined and the sins I have
remitted in my assumed character will swing
evenly, so far as Doomsday may decide, with those
granted on confession by worthy Brother Bonaventure.
But,” he continued, in a gay tone, “to
quote one of the good father's proverbs, `He must
needs run whom the devil drives.”'

He thus put a period to his scruples by a coup
de main in the shape of a proverb, whose truth
certainly does not admit of question, but under
whose shelter more mischief has been wrought
than his infernal highness, if so disposed, could repair.

“Now aid me, Cupid and shade of Walter de
Lancy!” he added, as he heard a rustling behind
the arras.

The next moment a graceful female figure,
closely veiled, entered the chapel; and with less
scrupulous observance of the forms which characterized
the entrance of pious Sister Ursule, she advanced
with an easy, undulating motion, and kneeled
before the lattice of the confessional.

“Daughter,” said the confessor, after a brief silence,
during which only the gentle suspirations of
the penitent were heard, while her young bosom
heaved like the breast of a wild pigeon in the
hands of the fowler, “daughter, thou art come to
confession, I trust, with a heart suitably prepared
to receive absolution; for I am informed thy indiscretions,
to give them no harsher term, have
been many and aggravated. But, if thou hast duly
repented, I will give thee absolution, on confession,
for all thy offences up to this time; for I do not desire
to be rigorous with youth. Thou mayst confess,
beginning with the hour of matins. But first

put aside thy veil, daughter, that I may see if thy
looks show thee to be sufficiently penitent.”

The novice, from the mysterious yet elated manner
of Sister Ursule, who could not altogether disguise
her pleasure as she communicated her message,
and from some ominous words dropped
by her, of which she could only distinguish the
sounds `Norman knight,' had anticipated from the
father confessor a severe rebuke and onerous penance.
But when she heard the unusually mild tones
of his voice, which the monk had now learned to
disguise still more by placing his lips to one of
the numerous apertures of the lattice as if to the
mouth of a tube, she experienced infinite relief,
and, drawing aside her veil, prepared with cheerfulness
and confidence to make her confession.

The removal of her veil, which is seldom worn
at confession, exposed to the gaze of the young confessor,
as he surveyed them through the interstices
of the confessional blinds, the features of a strikingly
beautiful girl, not more than sixteen years of
age. Her hair was of the richest shade of auburn,
and, escaping from the confinement of the virgin
fillet that bound it, flowed in golden luxuriance
over her faultless neck and finely-turned shoulders,
the exquisite shape of which was eminently
displayed by the dark-coloured and closely-fitting
habit that she wore. Meeting close at the
throat, where it was secured by a jet-clasp, it descended
to her waist, exhibiting its fine proportions
and perfect symmetry to much greater advantage
than worthy Sister Ursule, or, perhaps, the inventors
of this religious costume would have approved,
had their carefulness in departing from the sin-alluring
garments of the world partaken more of
worldly wisdom. The dark colour of her attire
gave, also, additional lustre to a complexion remarkably

clear and brilliant. This was especially
exemplified in the contrast between the sombre
hue of her habit and a pair of snowy hands, soft
and childlike in appearance (the taper fingers nevertheless
showing those graceful proportions indicating
the maturer maiden) which, protruding from
the closely-cut sleeve, were demurely crossed on
her bosom. Her eyes, at first, were meekly cast
down, as became the circumstances and attitude of
the penitent, offering to the gaze of the admiring
soldier dark lashes, like silken fringes, shading and
quite concealing the orbs beneath. But when,
embarrassed by the silence preserved by her confessor,
who, forgetful of his situation, drank in with
his eyes her unconscious beauty, she timidly raised
them to the lattice, they beamed with intelligence
and a sweetness of expression just sufficiently
mingled with passion, or, to speak with greater
truth, love, to be irresistibly fascinating. They
were of that peculiar shade of brown often united
with auburn hair, closely allied to black, and commonly
designated as such, but which is more nearly
assimilated to the rich hue of the chestnut. They
were full of lambent fire, and ready to kindle into
flame or overflow with tenderness as the changing
impulses of her soul played in their dark and dangerous
depths. Her beauty was of an Oriental
cast: her face oval; her forehead low, but pleasing,
and falling into a nose of classic beauty. Her
mouth was small and more exquisitely formed, and
infinitely more fatal than Cupid's bow, who, it is
fabled, stole from beauty's lips its graceful shape.

An air of demure submission pervaded her whole
manner, the existence of which was denied, however,
by an arch expression playing about the corners
of her mouth, and a piquant glance that her
drooping eyelids could not altogether conceal.

Her beauty was the more striking from the absence
of affectation, as, unconscious of observation,
or, at least, of exciting admiration, she kneeled
artlessly before the confessional, oblivious of those
little airs which, if she had known who gazed upon
her, she might have called to her aid, but to diminish
rather than increase the charm created by her ingenuous
loveliness.

The young confessor, in the ardour of his admiration,
had wellnigh forgotten his assumed character;
and, yielding to the impulse of youthful passion,
was about to rush from the confessional to
cast himself at her feet, when the peculiar harp-tones
of her voice, which had so thrilled upon his
senses when he first heard them in scarcely audible
prayer, recalled him to the duties, now, at least,
sufficiently agreeable, of his usurped station.

Raising her eloquent eyes, she said, sweetly and
persuasively, “Father, I hope your silence is not
from anger that I said what I did about the Norman
knight, for I know that envious nun Ursule
has told you of it.”

“No, my daughter,” replied the confessor, with
difficulty addressing youth and beauty in the gruff
tones of Father Bonaventure, at the same time impatient
to throw off his disguise and appear before
her with all the advantages of youthful eloquence
and fascinating address, graces which few possessed
in a more eminent degree, and of whose
power over the female heart no one was more conscious.
“No, Eugenie, I am not offended. But,
as thou hast voluntarily renounced the world and
its vanities, thou shouldst think of no other bridegroom
than the church, to which thou art betrothed.”

“No, no, I have not voluntarily renounced the
world, father,” she replied, with some warmth, her
dark eye lighting up with animation; “although I

love the church, I do not love it enough to relinquish
all the enjoyments of life for it. May not heaven
be won without such sacrifice? I would rather
try my chance with others, to whom the green
earth is as free as to the forest deer, than be
mewed up here all my life, till I come to be such
a withered spectre as nun Ursule, who, I verily
believe, would forfeit her soul's salvation if she
could see me this day the counterpart to herself.”

This was said with feminine spirit and the pouting
lip of a spoiled child.

“Then why art thou here, daughter, if against
thy will?” asked the monk, becoming interested in
the fate of the lovely penitent.

“Because,” she replied, with feeling, “the will
of others was stronger than mine. I have been
here four months to-morrow, father; but, before I
remain eight more, and then take the veil, I will
make my escape. I never knew,” she continued,
with emotion, “how to compassionate poor imprisoned
birds till now. I remember reading in
one of my English books how a poor starling shut
up in a cage continually cried, `I can't get out!
I can't get out!' I know how to feel for the poor
starling now, father!”

She spoke these words with a natural and touching
eloquence that affected the young soldier, while
the heavy drooping lid and increased lustre of her
eyes betrayed the depth of her own emotion.

“And who forced thee, my child, to embrace a
life for which thou hadst no inclination?” inquired
the monk, with additional interest in the fate of the
lovely novice.

“My guardian and uncle, the Vicomte St. Clair,”
she answered, with an indignant flash of her eyes
and a scornful curl of her beautiful upper lip;
“but I thought you knew this, father?”

“Yes, Eugenie, true; but I had forgotten.
Where now is thy uncle the vicomte?”

“Gone from Quebec to France, to take possession
of my grandfather's estate, which should have
been my own inheritance through my father, who
was the eldest son.”

“And he has placed thee in this convent, that,
through thy taking the veil, he may usurp thy
right?”

“He has, father. He urged, remonstrated, and
threatened, and I had no other alternative than to
yield to his tyranny. He was my guardian on the
death of my father, Colonel de Lisle, who fell by
the side of the noble Marquis de Montcalm in the
attack on Quebec. The fatal tidings were conveyed
to my mother, then at Montmorenci. She
survived him but a few weeks, leaving me an infant.
The Vicomte St. Clair, whom my mother
had appointed my guardian, consigned me to the
care of a Madame Montmorin. She was the widow
of a distinguished officer, and a friend of my mother.
I resided with her until my uncle, who had been
living upon my father's property in France, tempted
by his cupidity and his fears of soon being dispossessed
(as I was nearly of the legal age to enter
upon the possession), resolved to deprive me of it.
He arrived at Quebec in May last, and, by entreaties,
promises, and threats, induced me to consent
to enter, as a novice, the Hôtel Dieu.

“After six weeks' residence there I found means
to escape; when the Vicomte St. Clair, who still
remained in Quebec, learning that I had returned
to the house of Madame Montmorin, came for me.
Deceived by his artful language, this lady permitted
me to be taken away by my uncle, who conveyed
me here, bidding, in my hearing, the superior
to guard me as if I were a state's prisoner. It

is thus, father, I came to be an involuntary inmate
of a convent. But,” she added, firmly, “I will not
remain here; even the assumption of the veil itself
should not prevent my improving the first opportunity
of escape.”

Her narrative was given with a degree of animation
that heightened the beauty of her features, and
communicated to them the additional attribute of
moral sublimity. During the recital her eyes lighted
up with varied impulses: filial pride, while she
spoke of her father's soldierly death; resentment,
when she alluded to her wrongs; affection, when
she spoke of her friends, like the changing features
of an April sky reflected in a lake, were mirrored
in them.

As the young soldier listened to a theme well
calculated, coming from such lips, to awaken the
chivalrous spirit in a youthful breast, he was
scarcely able to moderate his indignation or refrain
from at once declaring himself the champion
of her wrongs. But while he mentally resolved,
with the prompt decision of a romantic youth, to
become her sworn knight in this cause, and deliver
her from an oppression which both his education
and sense of justice declared to be illegal and criminal,
his heart at the same time entering a protest
against it of at least equal strength, he decided to
prepare the way with caution and safety both to
himself and the interesting object of his sympathy.
The confession of the nun Ursule had furnished
him with a clew, by which he determined to be
guided in his contemplated enterprise.

“Daughter Eugenie,” he said, addressing her as
she kneeled before him with a heaving bosom and
a cheek still glowing with excited feelings, “my
heart shares with thee thy unhappy destiny. Thou
hast been speaking to Sister Ursule of Walter de

Lancy, and instituting some comparison between
him and Father Bonaven—, that is to say, myself.”

“Nay, father,” she said, an arch smile mantling
her lips as she spoke, “but you have already given
me absolution for this; but, father, is not your voice
strangely altered this morning?”

“It's the cold and snow; the snow, daughter,”
replied the confessor, in a voice which Father Bonaventure
himself would have mistaken for his own;
“but I would speak to thee of this Norman knight.
Thou sayst that, in the guise of a confessor, he entered
the convent and shrived the inmates?”

“Yes, reverend father,” she replied, hesitatingly,
“it was in Normandy; and a brave knight,
and one worthy a maiden's love he was. But that
was in the days of romance, father,” she added,
with a gentle sigh; “such things are not now known
except in olden tales.”

“Perhaps not, Eugenie,” said the young soldier;
“but what now wouldst thou give if I, thy father
confessor, were to prove a knight, not so gallant
and comely, perhaps, as thy Norman De Lancy,
but young, and brave, and willing to go the death to
free thee from thy imprisonment?”

“You a brave and gallant knight, Father Bonaventure!”
repeated the novice, laughing.

“Even so, novice; what wouldst thou give?”

“I would give you, if you were as you say,”
replied the maiden, with a smile that doubtless
would have captivated the heart of Father Bonaventure
if he had been in the place of his dangerous
guest, while her face beamed as if there had
been liberty in the thought, “what the novice, for
whose love this brave knight disguised himself,
gave to him—heart and hand! what more could
maiden give?”

“Eugenie,” said the young soldier, in his natural

tones, but modulated to the gentlest and most
persuasive accents, “be not alarmed at my voice.
Retain, I beseech you, your presence of mind! I
am neither Father Bonaventure nor a confessor,
but a young soldier, your Norman knight if you
will, who will place you free as the wild roe beneath
the blue heavens, with his life's purchase and
within the hour, if you will trust to his loyalty and
honour.”

As he spoke he opened the door of the confessional
and stood before her. At his appearance
she shrunk back with the extremity of alarm visible
on her countenance. Gracefully and tenderly
taking her passive hand, he threw back his cowl,
and exposed youthful and handsome features instead
of those of Father Bonaventure; and those same
dark eyes, whose passionate fire had already lighted
a flame in her heart, again met her own.

“Be not alarmed, fair Eugenie,” he said to the
bewildered novice, who scarcely knew whether she
was awake or dreaming, at so sudden a realization
of her romantic wishes; “deign to accept me as
your Norman knight, and I will free you from this
dreary prison.”

“What guarantee have I of your good faith,
Sir Cavalier?” she asked, recovering her presence
of mind, and archly smiling as she withdrew her
hand from that of the young soldier.

“In proof of my sincerity, lovely girl,” said the
youth, smiling in his turn, and speaking in a tone
that carried confidence to her bosom, “I am about
to confide to you my safety, and, perhaps, my life.”

Thus speaking, he advanced to and carefully
secured both entrances of the chapel, and then returning
to her, cast aside his disguise, and, to the
increased surprise of the astonished maiden, appeared

before her in the gay and gallant costume
of a colonial officer of rank.

“Now, Eugenie,” he said, placing his foot with
something like contempt upon the monk's cassock
which he had cast on the ground, “you see me in
my true character, as a soldier in the army of the
colonies which are in arms against the oppression
of the mother country. I have adopted this disguise
that I may travel without interruption to
Quebec, whither I am sent on a mission of importance
by the commanding officer of a division of
the colonial army now on its march into Canada.
The Father Bonaventure only knows me as a
brother priest. I am to take my departure within
an hour to pursue my journey. If you will confide
in me, by my honour as a soldier and a gentleman,
I will aid your escape from the convent if I have
to lead you forth in the face of the whole sisterhood,
the Father Bonaventure, and nun Ursule to
boot,” he added, smiling. “Fly with me, dearest
Eugenie,” he persisted, in a voice modulated by
love to accents of inexpressible sweetness, and with
a fascination of look and manner that was irresistible;
“I feel that from this moment our destinies
are inseparably linked. Speak, lovely one! Say
that you will trust to my honour, as a sister would
confide in a brother. I will be to you as a brother,
and sacred as a sister will I regard you, until I
place you under the roof of some friend in Quebec,
or wherever you wish to find an asylum. Not one
word from those lovely lips, not one look from
those soft eyes, to tell me that I do not plead in
vain?”

As the tender vine, when cast loose by the tempest
from its support, at length reaches and clings
around some noble trunk towards which its tendrils
have been long stretched forth; as the dove, when

pursued by the trained hawk, seeks shelter in the
bosom of the falconer, so did the persecuted and
friendless novice commit her destiny to the honour
and chivalry of the handsome young soldier who
suppliantly kneeled at her feet, and passionately
urged his romantic suit. Just as she had yielded,
with downcast eyes, stern loud voices without the
convent, as if demanding admittance, accompanied
by vehement knocking on the door, startled them
both.

The lover hastily rose to his feet, and their eyes
eloquently met. By a sort of freemasonry said to
exist among lovers, more was conveyed by the
magical interchange of their glances than the
tongues of either could have uttered. The next
moment, as if actuated by one impulse, they drew
near each other, and in an instant the arms of the
daring youth were encircling the yielding form of
the blushing novice, and his bold lips pressed her
own. With her virgin cheeks burning with shame
and with heightened beauty, she bounded away
from him and fled from the oratory.

He hastily resumed his disguise, and with his
bosom swelling with the pride of recent conquest,
and his dark eyes flashing with the triumph of a
successful wooer, he hastened to ascertain the
cause of the noise without. As he advanced
through the gallery it increased in violence, as if
the applicants held in slight veneration the sacred
character of the convent, or were influenced by
circumstances to whose urgency the shelter of a
convent or hostel were alike welcome.

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE SPY.

As the monk hastened through the gallery for
the purpose of ascertaining the cause of the clamour,
so ill suited to the peaceful character of a religious
abode, he was met by Zacharie, who, in a
voice tremulous with alarm, but spiced, nevertheless,
with a sufficient share of his natural audacity,
said, “If thou likest not a hempen cravat, monk or
soldier, or whatever thou art, back with thee to
some lurking-hole.”

“What mean you, boy?” inquired the monk,
earnestly, but without exhibiting any signs of
alarm; “can you tell me the meaning of this rude
uproar outside the gate?”

“That can I. There are four horsemen without
who demand a spy, who, they contend, has
passed this way under a monk's cowl and cassock.
And they swear round oaths, one louder than the
others making oath by his beard, they will give
him a short shrift and a merry dance 'tween heaven
and earth if they lay hands on him. Thou knowst
best if thou hast interest in this matter, father.”

“No trifling interest, boy, as you have guessed,”
said the monk, with a calm demeanour, and apparently
unmoved by this announcement of danger.
Nevertheless, his eyes flashed, and his lips were
compressed with determination, as, fixing his gaze
full upon the boy, he said, in a low and firm voice,

“Zacharie, I must not be taken. If they break
into the convent, as from their earnest blows they

are likely to, then we must see how one man can
bear up against four.”

“But thou shalt not be taken,” said the lad, decidedly,
catching the spirit of the monk; “I said
last night I would serve thee, and I will now do it.
But I shall have to lie roundly for it, father, for
which thou wilt, no doubt, give me absolution!”
he dryly added.

“No, no, boy, I alone must face these men,”
he replied, passing Zacharie with a youthful impetuosity,
which, doubtless, would have drawn upon
him the censure of the old Chevalier de Levi.

“Faith! that thou shalt not,” responded Zacharie.
“Keep close for the next five minutes; show
neither cowl nor cassock, and I will so deal with
them that they will give thee little trouble.”

“But you will involve yourself in danger,” said
the monk, catching and detaining Zacharie by his
capote as he was about to bound from him.

“Not so, father,” he answered, confidently; “I
know two of the loons well; for their uproar waked
me, and I had a glimpse of them from the window
while they were calling out for a spy they swore
was concealed within the four walls of this convent,
and so I hastened hither to give thee warning.
Keep out of the way, father, and I will soon put
them on a false scent. But I must vanish, for here
come the women.” Thenplacing his fingers in his
ears, he darted away from the monk as the extremity
of the cloister began to be filled with the
terrified inmates, both religieuses and novices, of
the convent, whom the noise had drawn from their
apartments.

As Zacharie disappeared at the opposite end of
the gallery, he turned the lock in the door leading
from it into the hall, and thereby effectually prevented
the monk's interference in his tactics. On

his entrance the strangers were still hammering and
shouting for admittance. Beside the great convent
door, holding the key in his hand, and in great perturbation
of spirit, sat Father Bonaventure himself.
He was too irresolute to apply the key to the lock,
although, at each repetition of the knocks and
shouts, he essayed to do it. Their demands for
admission, whether made with their tongues or the
butts of their pistols, he answered with a faint denial,
enforced by some apt proverb, of having seen
or entertained either officer or spy. Nevertheless,
his fears whispered to him, that if the monk whom
he had left in the confessional should prove, as he
now began to suspect, a spy or layman in disguise
—an enemy to the government he already knew
him to be—his presence in the convent would result
in his own ruin both with church and state.

In his most palmy state of peace and quietude,
Father Bonaventure was not remarkable either for
energy or uncommon presence of mind. Circumstances,
however, seldom called these virtues into
trial, his most appalling dangers being those that
threatened the much-dreaded diminution of his corporeal
dignity. At this crisis he found himself in
a condition of great perturbation. The entrance
of Zacharie afforded him that kind and degree of
relief which is experienced by the unfortunate
when they find a fellow-being, however insignificant
and incapable of affording affectual aid, compelled
to share their misfortunes.

“Dost thou bolt that door, jackanapes?” he
cried, in alarm, the last spark of his valiancy, which
the assault of the marauders had left glimmering,
going out as he detected this apparent conspiracy
on the part of one within the besieged place; “wilt
thou give me no way of 'scape from the assaults
of these godless highwaymen if they batter down

the door, as they are yet like to do? Verily,” he
added, in the depth of his misery, “verily, I am
caught like a bird in the snares of the fowler!”

“Hist, father!” replied the boy; “seest thou
not that the key is on the inside, and that thou
canst get out if they do not let a hole into that fat
paunch o' thine, which would be a charitable letting
out o' much wind, and an afterward saving o'
broadcloth.”

“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the monk, rising
from the bench and waddling towards the door of
escape with wonderful celerity, the flesh of his
cheeks and sides quivering as he rolled along as if
of the consistency of jelly.

“Ho, ho! ho, la, ho!” cried a boisterous voice
without, while a blow followed each syllable by
way of corollary, “wilt have a bullet hole bored
through thy door, old Father Bonaventure? Thou
hast kept us full ten minutes waiting for thee to
unbolt, and, by my beard, if thou keepst good
men without in the snow while thou art within in
the feathers, we will blow thy door through in the
cocking of an arquebus, if old cloven hoof himself
stood behind it. By my beard will we, old dad!”

“By thy beard thou wilt not, Luc Giles,” replied
Zacharie, imitating, as closely as a bagpipe could
imitate a bassoon, the hoarse voice of the speaker;
“dost think thou art at an alehouse porch, that thou
roarest so like a seahorse.”

“By my beard!” cried the same voice, though
in tones somewhat lowered, and as if addressing
his comrades, “if old cloven hoof be not there
himself, there spoke his firstborn, that little hopo'-my-thumb,
Zacharie Nicolet. Ha! my young
cub,” he said, raising his voice, “art thou there?”

“Ay, thou old bear,” answered Zacharie, in the
same tone, “go suck thy paws; for thou'lt find no
meat here.”

“By the beard of St. Peter, and that was a yard
long, that may be true. But see if I wring not
thy neck, thou speckled hawk hatched from a
hen's egg.”

“Faith, Luc, an thou comest to that, thou canst
not tell if thou art hawk's brood or hen's brood, if
all tales be true.”

“Didst ever hear a young chick cackle so bravely,
boys?” said the prototype of our friend Jacques,
laughing loudly. “By my beard, I always get the
left hand o' thy fool's tongue, Zacharie. It's ill
flinging chaff against an east wind.”

“Thou hast named thy witless words most aptly,
Luc,” said Zacharie, laughing; “and I bid thee
beware, lest I blow both thee and thy chaff far from
this floor, if thou goest not about thy business.”

“Not till we get the grist we came for, little
Nic,” answered the man, doggedly.

“If thou seekst him I guess, thou wilt not find
him here, Luc Giles.”

“Knowst thou aught of him, lad?” inquired Luc
Giles, eagerly; “'twill be worth a score of crowns
in thy bonnet if thou canst put us on the right
scent. But how comest thou here, Zacharie? Hast
donned cassock and turned priest, lad, hey?”

“Not I, Luc; between old mother and Father
Duc, I get enough of priest and cassock at home.
But, between thee and me, Luc,” added the boy,
lowering his voice and speaking in a confidential
tone, “I guided a monk to this convent last night.
It may be 'tis him thou seekst.”

While he was speaking the monk advanced
through the door by which Father Bonaventure
had effected his retreat (which, we will mention in
passing, was not stayed until he found himself, safe
from ball and steel, within the chapel) and, as Zacharie
ceased, he felt a hand upon his throat and a
stern whisper in his ear,

“Villain, would you betray me?”

“Hands off, Sir Monk,” said the boy, in the same
suppressed tone, not the least disconcerted by this
summary proceeding; “thou art over hasty with
thy hands. Stand beside me; and, if I prove faithless,”
he firmly added, “then make thy blade and
my bones acquainted.”

The monk, reassured by the frank and resolute
tones of the boy, released his grasp, and, as if mortified
at his want of confidence and his hasty act,
retired to the upper end of the hall, leaving him to
pursue the conference with those without in his
own way. At the same instant, amid a murmur of
elated voices, Luc Giles said eagerly,

“It was thou, then, Zacharie Nicolet, that guided
him hither? That silly donkey, Jacques, we
met on the road at old Alice's hostel, said he had
guided a monk to Ducosse's, and, when I would
know more, he swore at me by his beard that he
would not tell. But I gave his chin a tweak,” added
Giles, laughing hoarsely, his companions joining
in his merriment, “and, by the beard o' me, I
planted him a buffet over his ears, to mend his
manners when in company with his betters, and
so rode on. We could get nothing from old Ducosse
but scraps of outlandish Latin, and pushed
forward, inquiring here and there on the road, and
so tracked him here. And now we've earthed the
fox, by my beard! we'll have our game out of him.”

“An old fox hath a long trail, Luc,” said the boy;
“thou wilt have to track him farther yet, and take
thy game otherwheres. He delayed here but half
an hour to bait, and then pushed forward in great
haste alone, for fear he should get blocked up by
the snow. I fear 'twill be hard to track him now,”
he added, in an inimitable tone of feigned disappointment;
“by the cross! if I had known he were

a spy, I'd have placed him under lock and key in
Father Bonaventure's wine-cellar.”

“Sayst thou so,” exclaimed Luc Giles, in a tone
of real disappointment; “then, by my mother's
beard, we must ride for it! How far has he the
start of us?”

“Good three hours; but the roads are heavy,
and he must travel slow. With hard riding thou
wilt come up with him ere night sets in. But how
knowst thou he is a spy, Luc?”

“I saw him the night of Francois Benoît's death
in the colonial uniform; and as we, that is, King
George, which is all the same, be fighting with the
colonies, I began to smell a rat. But, before I could
make up my mind whether he was a spy or no,
Father Etienne got him off in a monk's garb, and
tried afterward to throw dust in my eyes. But
'twouldn't do! I got my mates together, took horse,
and gave chace. Now, if thou sayst he has gone
ahead, why we'll e'en keep on till we run down
our game. The governor'd give a round hundred
crowns to catch a spy. It's for no good he's skulking
through the valley, I'll be sworn. Come, comrades,
let us ride!”

“If I do till we take a pull at the priest's wineflagon,
may I drink water all the days of my life,”
said, gruffly, one of the party, who had not before
spoken.

“Ay, ay, Gregory is the only sensible lad among
us,” said another; “give us a swig o' the old daddy's
juice, and then we'll ride, but not a step without.”

“By my beard! you say well, comrades all,”
added Luc Giles. “Out with the key o' the wine
tap, Bony; if thou wilt not let us into thy old
rookery, have the grace to give us a little of the
genuine '45 to moisten our throats, which are as

dry as a sponge with this cursed hallooing at thy
door. Tip us the flagon, little Zacharie, for I'll be
sworn the father has it handy.”

“In the name o' the blessed St. Peter, I will give
thee a cup of water, and bid thee depart in peace,”
replied the boy, imitating the manner of Father
Bonaventure, handing, as he spoke, a flagon which
old Agathe, on first learning the demand, and anticipating
the result, had hastily filled from a cask
in an adjoining recess; “what can my sons expect
but holy water from a priest's hands?”

“Callest thou this holy water, boy?” said Luc
Giles, who had taken the tankard, with a gloomy
brow hearing the words that accompanied it, but
now spoke like a man who is unexpectedly pleased;
“if the monks and priests drink such water as this,
I have no objections to turning monk myself.”

The flagon was passed round, eliciting that
emphatic smacking of the lips which follows
grateful draughts of the juice of the grape, and
drawing especially from him who had been called
Gregory a deep-drawn sigh, as if he mourned that
he had no room beneath his jacket for another flagon.

“Zach, lad, thou art fit to be cupbearer to the
pope,” said Giles, returning the empty vessel; “tell
old Bony we'll call and take another sprinkling of
his holy water on our way back. Now, good-by,
and take care of thyself, Zachie,” he added, ironically;
“the saints send thee safely back to thy
old mother's apron-string, and tell her wean thee
when thou hast cut thy teeth. Come, mates, let us
ride!”

“My dam's apron-string hang thee yet,” replied
the boy, as they rode across the court to the convent
gate; “if I have not filed thy eyeteeth for thee
this day, thou braggart clown, and cheated thee under
thy nose, then wilt thou cheat the hangman,

which thou art not like to do. Now, Sir Monk,”
he continued, turning from the window and addressing
the young soldier with ready self-possession,
“thou mayst abide here until night, and, when
the moon rises, I'll get a faithful half-breed to
guide thee to the river. This Luc Giles will give
up the pursuit when he can learn nothing more of
his chase, and will be back here, swearing more
valiantly by his black chin than thou hast heard
him do but now. But the bird will be flown, and
he may give Father Bonaventure the benefit of his
knocks in return for flagons of holy water.”

“My brave lad,” said the monk, grasping his
hand, and warmly acknowledging his obligations,
at the same time commending his address and faithfulness,
“how can I reward you?”

“The best reward thou canst bestow,” said the
boy, proudly, “and the only one, too, that I will
accept, is to be made a soldier such as thou art.”

“You are too young, Zacharie,” said the officer,
smiling; “would you fight against King George?”

“Ay, that would I, against any king. But I
am almost as tall as thyself,” he added, drawing
himself up; “it were a charity to make a soldier
of me, father, lest I carve men's throats without
the law on my side, as thou hast who do it by the
wholesale.”

“What sayst thou of carving men's throats by
the wholesale, thou prating manakin? A small
spark makes a great fire. Soon ripe, soon rotten,”
cried Father Bonaventure, who, after looking in at
the door, and satisfying himself that the coast was
clear, now bustled into the hall. In one hand he
bore an ancient firelock, which, from the shattered
condition of the stock and a huge gape in the barrel,
was, like the young Arab's fowlingpiece, somewhat
given to bursting; it was, moreover, without

a lock. In the other hand he carried a stout oaken
cudgel, probably the most serviceable weapon of
the two.

“The cowards are gone, ha?” he cried, brandishing
his weapons, and advancing boldly up to the
door. “'Sdeath! 'tis well they fled. Mars! how
I wish I had been trained a soldier! I would ha'
carved their flesh for 'em. Didst hear, boy? didst
hear, brother? Agathe, didst hear how stoutly I told
them begone, there was no spy here? and didst
not see how the door shook as they leaned against
it, with their quaking at my dreadful voice?”

“Thou didst quake all over, father,” said Zacharie,
dryly.

“Hist, lad! Verily, brother, it was with much
exercise of that Christian self-denial which our faith
inculcateth on such occasions, that I could refrain
from attacking, with my single arm, these four men
of war. 'Sdeath, I know not to what extent my
natural valour might have carried me, for, of a truth,
my indignation did boil within me, if I had not bethought
me to take myself to prayers in the chapel
against such temptations. Surely forbearance hath
its reward, saith the Scripture.”

“But how camest thou by that crazy old firelock,
father? Is't the reward of thy forbearance?” asked
Zacharie.

“I did hear a noise as if a battering-ram were
levelled at the gates,” replied the confessor; “and,
being fortified within, I sallied forth, like David, to
the defence, and did arm myself with these bloody
weapons of war as I came through the gallery; and,
when I arrived here, behold! the enemy had fled.
If men cannot bite, they had best not show their
teeth.”

“'Tis a pity, father, thou didst not get here before
they fled,” said Zacharie; “they would then,

doubtless, have been well punished for their insolence,
and for the future taught how to come roaring
about convent walls.”

“That would'a!” said the doughty and valorous
Father Bonaventure, drawing a long breath.

Then seating himself upon the settle he had
lately deserted with such commendable self-denial,
he placed his cudgel and firelock together across
his knees, and looked towards his guest as if he
desired an explanation of the affair.

It was now useless for the disguised soldier to
attempt longer to conceal his real character from
Father Bonaventure, whose surprise on learning it
was only equalled by his astonishment at the audacity
of his guest in assuming the duties of a confessor.
This seemed to trouble him not a little, as
from time to time he looked askance at him,
gathered his obese forehead into a frown, and essayed
to give utterance to his thoughts; but his
purpose as frequently failed him, either from constitutional
indolence, which made speaking, at least
in way of reproof, an effort, or from a conviction
that his spiritual weapons would be but an ill match
in contest with one armed with youth, and, peradventure,
sharp steel. Father Bonaventure, therefore,
gave vent to his displeasure, if one so uniformly
good-natured could retain in his composition
for any length of time an emotion so dangerous to
his bodily thrift as anger, in an occasional fierce
look, a slight tremour of the lip, the vain promise of
speech, and some half a dozen long-drawn sighs.

“Reverend father,” said the soldier, whose penetration
enabled him to discover the cause of his
emotion, “it would have become me better to have
confided to you last night the secret of my disguise.
I am not a priest in the colonial army, as
you are, doubtless, already aware, but an officer

therein. I shall follow this youth's advice, and
burden your hospitality until night, when I will
pursue my journey, the object of which you are
truly acquainted with. My secret is yet only
known to yourself and this lad, for the females,
doubtless, were too far from the scene of the late
alarm to have heard what would have given them
additional anxiety. To them you can give any explanation
you list. But let them not know, father,
that I am the spy those men seek, or, indeed, that
I am other than what, in this disguise, I seem.”

“And continue to give thee my chair in the confessional,
brother!” said Father Bonaventure, with
a glace of humour in his eyes as he turned them
on his guest. “Make the young wolf the lambs'
keeper, ha?”

“Not so, father; the lambs are safe enough for
me.”

“Pen them in the fold, Father Bonaventure,”
said Zacharie, “I'll be their watch-dog.”

“Beshrew me if thou wilt,” answered the
priest; “that would, indeed, better the matter.
The same breath that bloweth out the candle kindleth
the fire, truly saith the proverb.”

“But I'll dip in holy water, father,” answered
Zacharie.

“Crows are never the whiter for washing themselves,
lad. Go to, go to, I will be my own shepherd,”
he added, laughing. “Now, Sir Soldier,
or brother, as I had best call thee, in respect to thy
habit, thou mayst eat, drink, and sleep as thou wilt
till thy departure. Thou knowst where thy cell
is situate. 'Tis thine while thou art our guest.
But see that thy steps turn not towards my sheepfold,
and thou mayst safely remain an inmate of
the convent. Didst confess any one this morning,
brother?” he hastily inquired.

“There's no one will say they have heard other
voice than yours this day,” he replied, evasively.

“The better, all the better for thee and mine,”
said the confessor, cheerfully; “there hath been
less harm done than I dared hope. So come with
me to the refectory, where Sister Agathe, if these
rude riders have not scared her wits away, hath
made ready our morning repast. Come thou also,
lad, and break thy fast. Prayers and provender
never hinder any man's journey. But methinks
thou art rather a forward youth. Wanton kits,
however, may make sober cats.” Father Bonaventure,
having thus spoken, preceded his guest to
the refectory.

The opinion expressed by the monk in relation
to the knowledge possessed by the female inmates
of the convent of his real character was correct.
Too remote from the hall door to hear distinctly
the conversation between Zacharie and Luc Giles,
they had only understood that men were in pursuit
of some soldier supposed to have taken shelter in
the convent, but entertained no suspicion of the
identity of the youthful monk with the fugitive.
One of their number, however, instigated by curiosity
or some deeper feeling, had the boldness to
advance beyond her timid companions, and approach
the door leading from the gallery into the hall,
though not without receiving a frown from the superior
and a reproof from Sister Ursule. Eugenie,
for it was the novice of the oratory, had heard the
harsh voices of the men demanding the disguised
spy, and with a strange anxiety that she could not
account for, she listened until they had departed.
Then, possessed with the assurance of the truth of
her young confessor's story, and informed of his
danger as a spy she hastily retreated and rejoined
her trembling sisters at the farther extremity of the

gallery as Father Bonaventure came from the
chapel to return to the field he had so discreetly
and piously deserted.

We will briefly pass over the monotonous events
of the day. By the young soldier it was passed
in his cell in poring over a huge black-letter tome,
and in devising a plan for the escape of Eugenie;
by Father Bonaventure, seated in a leathern armchair
placed square before the refectory-room fire,
into which he vacantly gazed, with his hands clasped
over the front of his comely person; by the nuns
and novices, in their rooms over rosaries, missals,
or embroidery-frames; and by Zacharie, after he
had seen and arranged affairs with the Indian guide,
in tinkering at Father Bonaventure's old firelock,
or wandering restlessly through the long passages
and deserted cells of the convent.

10. CHAPTER X.
THE FLIGHT.

The chamber or cell occupied by the monk was
situated in a remote part of the convent. A single
window, guarded by a lattice of ironwork, closed
by a padlock, admitted sufficient light into it, while,
at the same time, it afforded the security of a prison.
Extending from the ceiling to the floor, it gave
egress, when thrown open, to a close gallery or
cloister running along the rear of the edifice. This
gallery was enclosed on all sides by Venetian
blinds, and in summer afforded a cool and agreeable
promenade, with a distant prospect of the river

winding through a gorge in the hills. It was now
appropriated as a greenhouse, the proper temperature
being preserved by tubes filled with hot air,
and crowded with a great variety of native plants
and exotics, some of which were young trees in
size.

The numerous vases were so arranged as to leave
a serpentine walk winding through them from one
extremity of the cloister to the other, and so shaded
by the foliage of the plants bordering it that one
might walk there wholly screened from observation,
save when passing by the windows looking
into the cells.

The evening of the day on which the events
recorded in the foregoing chapter had transpired
at length arrived. A roseate hue yet lingering behind
the sun suffused the sky, and, reflected from
the snow through the interstices of the blinds,
spread a golden light over the foliage of the plants.
The monk, wearied with following the obscure arguments
of the old fathers in their polemical controversies,
had long since thrown aside his book,
and, with his arms folded thoughtfully behind him,
had been for the last half hour walking his chamber,
revolving in his mind the morning's interview
with Eugenie in the chapel, and contemplating its
results. The final sum of his reflections was a determination
to aid her escape from the religious
imprisonment to which she was subjected, and conduct
her to the mansion of her friend, Madame
Montmorin, then leave the farther progress of his
love, as he already designated his brief and romantic
interest in her fate, to fortune.

“At all events,” he said, aloud, “she shall not
become the victim of this villanous St. Clair.
Conscious that my motives in relation to this lovely
creature are pure, I will devote myself to her

cause; and,” he added, solemnly laying his hand
upon his heart, “may the God of unprotected innocence
judge me as I am true or false! If she
will escape with me, I will safely conduct her to
the abode of her maternal friend, and, leaving her
there secure from further oppression, bid her farewell,
perhaps for ever! and, forgetting her, pursue
the destiny that is before me. Palsied be the heart
of that man,” he said, with a heightened glow, after
pacing the room for several minutes in silence,
as if replying to or combating some unworthy
mental suggestion, “who could take advantage
of her artless confidence and unprotected state.
Were she other than she is, a proud, rich, vain coquette,
placing her honour in the keeping of the
first bold cavalier, playing, like Folly herself, around
the net which at length ensnares her; a mere human
butterfly of silk and ribands, it would be an intrigue
to be less scrupulously balanced. Heighho!
'tis a great temptation,” he said, in a tone half gay,
half serious, “for one to whom laurels won in
love are fairer than the bays plucked in war. Alas,
that empty honour should stand in my way, and
thus baffle me! Unlike Falstaff, here Cupid bids
me on, and honour bids me off. This bewitching
novice, whose sweet form has already been entwined
in my arms, is mine,” he said, emphatically
and with a sparkling eye; “yes,” he added, in a
deep and severe tone, “mine, if I dare be a villain!”
In a few moments afterward he continued, in a
different tone, “Her extreme loveliness and naive
manner have so effectually captivated me, at all
times sufficiently susceptible to the dark eye of
woman, that, if I do not call in honour, her orphan
state, and her unsuspecting confidence, and weigh
them nicely against that propensity for intrigue
that is in me, she would better trust her vestal purity
with a Rochester than with me. Well, women
are, at last, but charming toys to amuse our
leisure hours withal. If I, who have borne off the
prize in so many successful amours, and from beings
lovely as the houri of Mohammed's paradise,
convey this sweet novice to her friends with the
self-denial I propose to myself, I shall have won
a greater victory even than all these, a victory
over myself. But before I can win I must dispose
my forces. How the fair novice will manage to
elude her keepers passes my comprehension. But
the sex have an instinctive tact in these matters, and
we thicker-witted men may safely leave all to them
where any plot or mischief is going forward.
There rings the vesper-bell! But I must not
alarm Father Bonaventure by making my appearance
in the oratory with his flock. Ha! I am not
alone!”

The window of his apartment was at that moment
darkened by a passing shadow, and a flower of
the iris, attached to a sprig of myrtle, fell at his feet.
Lifting it from the ground, he gracefully pressed it
to his lips, saying, in a tone of gallantry,

“Fair flower de luce, emblem and pledge of
promise! I accept the pledge! Yes, lovely novice,”
he added, in tones sufficiently audible to be
heard by one standing without the open window,
“my right hand shall forget its cunning ere I forget
the promise I have sacredly pledged to you.”

Then lifting his eyes, expressive of a secret intelligence,
to the window, he added, placing the
flower upon his heart,

Then looking towards the window, which was

nearly covered by a myrtle, he saw “through its
luxuriant blind” the outline of a female form whose
exquisite proportions could not be mistaken. But
with that caution which the incident of the flower
had inspired, he remained on the spot where its
fall had arrested him, saying, as he placed the sprig
of myrtle in his breast,

“Propitious fates, accept a lover's thanks! Lo,

“What stronger testimonial of requited love need
wooer ask? I will wear this treasure next to my
heart, for

“In her own delicate and mystic language I will
assure her of my devotion,” he continued, plucking
a flower which grew in a vase within the recess
of the window. “Here is the snowdrop, the emblem
of friendship in adversity. It is a beautiful
and appropriate reply.”

He cast it through the window, and beheld it
drop at the feet of the mysterious visitant. A fair
hand hastily caught it up, and the next instant an
anemone fell upon the floor of the cell. He eagerly
seized it, and found a slip of paper wound
around the stem. Unrolling it, he read with a
beating heart,

“Take no rash step. Throwing myself wholly
on your honour and generosity, I consent to leave
this hateful convent under your protection. I will
meet you by the myrtle when the moon rises. Till
then, adieu.” In a single line below, in the form
of a postscript, was added,

“You will find the key of your window behind
the wooden crucifix in the refectory.”

The note bore no signature; but, aside from his

knowledge of its source, he was assured the elegant
Italian characters he so ardently perused could
have had no other author than the romantic novice.

“I must try and draw her to the window,” he
said, in the animation of the moment, thoughtlessly,
“that I may banquet on her lovely face, softened
by this rosy twilight.”

He approached the grating and whispered her
name. The rustling of the foliage and the light
sound of a retreating footstep convinced him that
his mystic correspondent had fled, choosing in this
manner to intimate the danger of prolonging their
stolen interview, and, at the same time, reprove
his imprudence, where she herself had practised
so much caution.

“The lovely novice has shown more discretion
than I,” he said, retiring from the window and resuming
his seat at the table, where, instead of the
volume which lay open before him, he began to
study the graceful turns of the beautifully-formed
characters of the billet, as if each letter had been a
flower, conveying in itself a mystic language.

The silence of midnight at length reigned within
the convent-walls, and every eye save those of
the monk and the novice Eugenie was sealed in
sleep. The former had just dismissed Zacharie,
who had entered his cell to bring the key of the
window, for which the young officer had sent him,
and which he found behind the crucifix, where the
novice had probably placed it. Zacharie also informed
him that the moon was about rising, and that
the carriole and Indian guide was in readiness at
the gate, the keys of which Father Bonaventure
had consigned to him on retiring, not wishing to be
disturbed by their departure.

“He ordered me,” continued Zacharie, “to give
him back the keys in the morning; and he bademe

say that he left his blessing for thee, and to tell
thee that thou hadst best settle thyself down in
life in thy youth, for a rolling stone gathers no
moss.”

Zacharie's footsteps had not yet died away along
the gallery after he left the cell, when the monk
applied the key to the padlock, and at once removed
the barricade from the window. As he
stepped upon the gallery, the rays of the rising
moon were visible through the blinds of the greenhouse,
brightly silvering the tops of the forest trees
on the opposite cliffs. With a throbbing heart,
and with his spirits elevated by the romance of his
situation, he moved a few steps noiselessly along
the cloister, and then awaited in breathless silence
the approach of the trusting and artless novice.

In a few moments a light footstep approached
from the opposite extremity of the cloister, and
the impatient youth advanced to embrace the expected
partner of his journey. But he started
back with his hand upon his sword-hilt, and a
slight exclamation of surprise and disappointment,
when he encountered the figure of a monk, visible
by the rays of the lamp which streamed through
his window. His first thought was, that Father
Bonaventure, discovering the proposed elopement,
had substituted his own person for that of the novice;
but a second reflection, and a closer scrutiny
of the height and dimensions of the person before
him, convinced him that, multiplied five times, it
could not become Father Bonaventure. His heart,
moreover, aided by that instinct which enables
lovers to ascertain, in a wonderful manner, the presence
of a beloved object, however invisible its
form and impenetrable its disguise to other optics,
assured him that the lovely person of the novice,
and not Father Bonaventure, was concealed beneath

that uncouth disguise, and the next moment
his arms encircled her, while his bold lips impassionedly
sought her own. But the maiden shrunk
from his embrace, hid her face in confusion in the
hood of her robe, and seemed about to fly from
him.

The young soldier, at once alive to his own imprudence,
and instantly appreciating her delicacy,
seized her hand, and, throwing himself on one knee
before her, apologized for his warmth (in so modest
a manner, and in a voice touched with such
sincere regret, that he would have disarmed resentment,
even on similar offence, in the bosom of
nun Ursule), and expressed his sorrow that he
should have been the cause of wounding her feelings
by his rash thoughtlessness.

“Forgive me, sweet Eugenie,” he said, in tones
of deep humility; “it was but a momentary forgetfulness
of the sacred relation in which I stand towards
you as your protector, and also of your unprotected
state. Say that you forgive me, Eugenie,”
he continued, his voice subdued to a melancholy
cadence, and rising scarcely above a musical
whisper, to which, pleased yet trembling, she
listened with downcast eyes and heaving bosom,
“breathe the word forgive, and I will offend no
more.”

“On that condition, then, you are forgiven,” she
said, in tones so low that none but a suppliant lover's
ears could have caught them.

“Thank you, bless you! dearest Eugenie,” he
warmly exclaimed; “from this moment I will be to
you only as a brother.”

“Then, dearest brother,” she said, in a lively
tone, her confidence of manner at once restored by
his seeming sincerity and deep respect, “beware,”
and her fore finger was raised threateningly, while

an arch smile dwelt on her lip, “beware lest you consider
as one of your fraternal privileges the liberty
you were now about to take so very cavalierly. I
am now on my guard, and not to be taken at vantage,
like a certain simple maiden in a certain
chapel I wot of. So be a good discreet brother,
and I will make up my mind to trust you. If you
had not repented, let me tell you, as you did, never
frightened doe fled faster from the hunter to covert
than I should have flown back to my little cell.”

“'Twas, indeed, an escape, fair Eugenie,” he
said, as they entered his room.

“What! so soon forgotten your fraternal attitude?”
she said, glancing at him reprovingly with
her dark eyes, whose fire would have kindled a
flame in the breast of an anchorite.

“Nay, if you are so severe, and will not let me
call you neither fair Eugenie nor dear Eugenie, I
must be silent, for my lips will shape no other
mode of speech; unless,” he added, in a tone of
real or affected pique, “I had best call you brother,
as your garb would sanction. If such be your
pleasure, never two speechless clowns jogged together
to market more discreetly than will you and
I ride side by side to Quebec. I'faith, scandal
shall have no food for her tongue if I can help it.”

“Now you are hurt, brother of mine,” she said,
laughing. “But, if you will promise to be good-humoured
on the way, there's no telling what may
turn up in your favour. It's hard for our sex to
remain long in one mind. So comfort yourself, my
gentle brother, on our well-known fickleness. Now
let us leave this hateful prison. I long to breathe
the free air of heaven, if it be at midnight.”

“No, Eugenie, I will not avail myself of your
sex's fickleness, but rather leave my better fortune
to your own generous heart.”

“'Tis a pretty speech and prettily spoken, brother;
but let us not delay,” she said, smiling and advancing
to the door of the cell.

“Nay, Eugenie, give me one look from those
charming eyes, but one smile from those sweet
lips to assure me that there is peace between us,
and,” he added, imboldened by the smile on her
beautiful mouth as his eye sought and met her
own conscious glance, “grant me one sisterly kiss
of forgiveness.”

Before she could resist he had snatched the boon
from her lips, and the next moment was kneeling
at her feet.

So much audacity, immediately atoned for by
such humility; the appeasing, imploring appeal of
his eyes; his silence, as if he had offended too
deeply for words to avail him, at once disarmed
her resentment for an offence so gracefully expiated;
and with a reproving shake of the head
and lifting of the fore finger, she granted the forgiveness
he so eloquently sought.

“Well, brother, I see you are incorrigible, and
I suppose I must be lenient. But presume not too
much on my good-nature. The moon is up. Let
us not linger here, but fly,” she added, with suddenly-assumed
energy.

“This moment!” he said, taking the lamp, and
placing himself by her side as she passed through
the door. “Let my arm assist you to the carriole,”
he added, passing his arm lightly around her.

“No, no, I will lean upon it, good and careful
brother.”

Hastily and silently they traversed the passage
to the hall, where they found Zacharie in waiting.
He immediately opened the doors, and accompanied
them across the court to the gate. Before it
stood the sleigh, to which were harnessed two small

but spirited ponies. Without speaking, the young
soldier assisted the disguised novice into it, and, after
bidding Zacharie a warm adieu, and rewarding
him with gold and assurances of favouring his belligerant
aspirations, he followed himself, and bade
the guide drive off with what speed the convent's
horses and the heavy condition of the road would
permit.

The snow had settled a little during the day, and
the track was by this time somewhat broken, so
that they glided over the ground with greater facility
than Father Bonaventure's words promised
when, in the morning, he surveyed the state of the
roads from the tower of his convent. The vehicle,
for which the traveller had exchanged his equestrian
mode of journeying, was a light wooden body,
gracefully shaped like a phaëton, with the exception
of the front piece, which rose sharp and narrow
three feet in height, terminating in the curved
neck and head of a swan, tastefully ornamented
with silver. It contained two seats, one of which,
in the back part of the carriole, and shut in by its
high close sides, was occupied by the travellers,
the other by the driver or guide. It was placed on
runners sixteen inches high, shaped like skateirons,
but consisting of a light frame instead of being
made solid, and, like them, terminating in a curve
in front, carved or cast so as to resemble the head
of a serpent. The runners sunk into the snow,
which was about two feet in depth, only six inches,
leaving the body of the carriole ten inches clear of
the surface, over which it glided with delightful
rapidity.

The back, the sides, and the seats of the carriage
were warmly lined with loose furs and numerous
buffalo skins, two of which, placed under
the feet of the travellers and drawn up before them,

enveloped their entire persons, and effectually protected
them from the cold, which was still intense.
The guide was seated in front wrapped up in a
capote of bearskin, and otherwise so completely
covered from head to feet with furs that both form
and feature were undistinguishable, and he more
nearly resembled the animal whose hide he wore
than a man. The monk, as we shall continue to
call our traveller, had not yet seen his face or
spoken to him except when he bade him drive from
the convent gate, to which he replied by whipping
his horses and uttering the Indian ejaculation
“eh!” an interjection, with him, expressive either
of assent or dissent, and, indeed, of almost every
emotion.

For some time they rode forward in silence, the
merry bells around the neck of the horses making
the otherwise dreary road cheerful by their lively
music. At first they glided along the surface of
the ground with the facility of a boat sailing on a
smooth lake; but after they had travelled a few
miles the road became intersected by furrows,
called cahots, formed in the snow by the winds,
heaving its surface into innumerable small ridges.
They were the most numerous where the road wound
through gorges, down which the wind swept unobstructed.
The motion of the carriole at these
places was like that of a boat pitching in a short sea,
and well-known to carriolers; often, when drawn
over a succession of them, like that motion, they
produce in the unpractised traveller a sensation of
nausea. Our travellers, however, experienced but
little annoyance; and, after clearing the defile, their
road became once more even, and their speed proportionably
increased. The monk, now putting
aside the furs from his face, addressed his taciturn
guide, who, for the two hours they had been on the

road, had exhibited no other signs of life than was
indicated by the mechanical rise and fall of his
right arm every five minutes, to lay his whip upon
the back of his team, and an occasional interjection
of encouragement to them as they toiled up some
more laborious hill.

“When do you cross the river, guide?” he
asked, as the horses were toiling up one of these
ascents.

“Eh! Four league, by-um-by,” he replied, in
harsh guttural tones, without turning his head, and
holding up four fingers by way of illustration.

“We shall soon accomplish that,” said the monk,
wishing to converse with, and learn something of
his guide; “these horses of yours do not appear to
know what fatigue is.”

This compliment to his steeds did not, however,
draw any reply from the taciturn driver.

“Is it not near morning?” asked the monk,
making a second attempt to open a conversation.

“Sun come two hours, by-um-by,” replied the
man, elevating two fingers, and then flourishing
his whip over the heads of the ponies, as they
reached the top of the hill. Obeying the hint, the
horses darted down the opposite descent with the
rapidity of reindeers.

“What is your name, guide?” asked the monk,
as they were gliding over a level tract, after having
descended the hill with speed still unabated.

“Name! eh!” he grunted; “Indian callee Ohguesse,
Canadian callee Gun.”

“If your qualities, worthy Gun, do credit to your
sponsors, you will be a valuable auxiliary on the
road in case we are attacked. How is the ice
where we are to cross the river, think you? It is,
no doubt, strong enough to bear the weight of our
carriole?”

“Eh! by-um-by, strong 'nough!” said Ohguesse,
with a nod of assent.

“Will it bear us if we remain in the carriole?”
asked the monk.

“Eh!” was the satisfactory reply of the Indian,
who wrapped the collar of his capote closely about
his face and ears, and more firmly grasped his
reins, as if he would thereby intimate that he was
already wearied by his unusual loquacity.

Defeated in the attempt to open a conversation
with his guide, the young soldier determined to
make an attack on a quarter where, perhaps, success
was still more problematical. During the
first hour of the journey, he enjoyed in silence the
exquisite consciousness of the presence of the
charming novice. The slightest touch of her little
feet, as they nestled in the same fur beside his
own, communicated to his veins a thrilling sensation
of delight; and as he felt her soft breathing
upon his cheek, and listened to the audible beating
of her heart, which he compared to a bird
fluttering to escape from beneath the folds of her
robe, he feared to speak lest the charm on his
senses should be broken.

A sound, like a smothered laugh, at the curt
answer of Ohguesse, coming from the fur hood of
the maiden, encouraged him to change the direction
of his battery. Leaving Ohguesse to atone
for his extraordinary garrulity by as long silence
as he chose to preserve, he turned to his fair companion
and gently repeated her name. But to reiterated
repetitions of “Eugenie! sweet Eugenie!”
there was no reply; and believing, by her
soft regular breathing, that she slept, and that his
ears had deceived him, he wrapped himself in his
furs, and in a few moments was also sound asleep.

It is, to be sure, altogether unprecedented in the

annals of romance, from the days of the Troubadours
down to the present time, for an author to
put his hero and heroine to sleep, and thus leave
them; sleep, hunger, and fatigue being three human
weaknesses to which genuine heroes and heroines
are presumed never to yield. But our hero
and heroine are not superhuman, but subject to
like passions with ordinary mortals; like them enduring
hunger and thirst, cold and heat, pain and
fatigue; therefore, one of them having slept but
three hours for the last three days, and the other
having been wakeful half the night in anticipation
of her escape, they very naturally yielded to the
soporific motion of the carriole, and availed themselves
of that restorative to the frames of weary
mortals which Nature has provided. This was the
more necessary, as on the morrow they were to undergo
additional excitement and fatigue, for which
a good sound sleep is, doubtless, an excellent preparative.

Trusting that they will awake at the beginning
of the next chapter, refreshed, and forearmed to
encounter the various adventures which may befall
them as the principal personages of this tale, we
will leave them to their repose and to the skill of
the taciturn Ohguesse.

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE PURSUIT.

When the travellers awoke, which very considerately
they did when their presence had become
necessary to the further progress of our tale, it was
already dawn, and they found, on inquiring of their
guide, that they had come six leagues, and that
the point at which they were to cross the river was
but a mile before them. The morning was clear
and cold, and the prospect that met their eyes everywhere
dreary; but its desolation was increased by
the earliness of the hour, the leafless forests, and
the wide wastes of snow: the Chaudiere, which
formed a prominent feature in the scenery, was
only distinguishable from the land by its more
even appearance and destitution of trees.

“Had we not best lighten the carriole by crossing
the stream on foot?” inquired the young officer
of Ohguesse, when at length the guide turned from
the main road, and began to approach the river in a
direct line.

“Eh! um ground strong, so um ice strong,” replied
the phlegmatic Indian, his swarthy features,
now visible by the daylight, as unmoved as those
of an automaton.

He drew up his horses on the verge of the
frozen river, leaped lightly to the ground, and, advancing
to his leader's head, prepared to lead him
upon the ice. Before he left the carriole he had
disencumbered himself of his outward covering of

furs, and his person and form became plainly visible
to the monk, who was struck with his remarkably
agile and athletic appearance. He was full
six feet in height, straight as an arrow, and very
slender, possessing just such a figure as, in civilized
life, would be termed genteel. His cheeks
were attenuated, and his features regular, but too
harsh to be handsome. A pair of black eyes glittered
beneath his arched brows with an active,
restless expression, and alone gave intelligence to
a countenance the chief expression of which was
that settled melancholy peculiar to his race. His
face bore more of the traits of the Andalusian
peasant than of the American Indian; although the
well-known characteristics of this singular race of
men were too indelibly stamped upon his physiognomy
for his aboriginal birthright to be called in
question. His taciturnity evidently did not proceed
from intellectual dulness—for his quick and sagacious
eyes seemed to observe and comprehend
everything passing around him—but rather from
that peculiar feature of education which teaches the
Indian warrior that dignity and courage are slow of
speech and of few words; or, as it is expressed in
their own figurative language, “the warrior talks
with his arm and eye, but women and birds are
known by their voices.”

“Why are you so silent, Ohguesse?” asked the
monk, looking sternly in his face, after having
twice suggested the expediency of taking the
horses from the carriole and dragging it over the
river, and receiving no other reply than the interjectional
“Eh!” “Eh is not to get us out of the
river if we once get into it, Ohguesse. Why do
you not answer?”

“Eagle only scream when he strike um game:
jackdaw never strike um game—scream all time!

Ohguesse, eagle! monk, jackdaw! Ohguesse no
priest.”

“A most sound and potent conclusion, I must
confess, and, withal, a very complimentary reply
to your fellow-travellers,” said the monk, as he
got out to try the strength of the ice. After sounding
it in several places, he added, in a peremptory
tone,

“Lead the horses and carriole over, Ohguesse,
and wait on the opposite shore: we will walk.”

He glanced at the carriole and its pile of furs,
beneath which neither foot nor hand was visible,
and then advancing to the sleigh, said,

“Will you cross with me on foot, fair Eugenie?
I fear to trust too much weight in the carriole.”

“Willingly,” she said, exposing, for the first time
since their departure from the convent, her face to
the gaze of the young soldier.

As she encountered his dark eyes, her cheeks
were suffused with conscious blushes; and as he
advanced to assist her to alight, and extended both
arms for the purpose, she said, laughingly,

“No, no, not in your arms, fair sir; I have feet,
and can use them.”

“They are very little ones, Eugenie, and will
not support you through the deep snow. I can
take you over as easily as a nurse would carry an
infant.”

“Art so good a nurse, brother? Really I had
not believed it if your own lips had not assured me
of it. What, piqued again! Nay, then, I will be as
sober and as sinless of any approaches to playfulness
as Nun Ursule herself.”

“Eh! horse ready!” grunted Ohguesse, lightly
springing into the carriole, and starting the horses
forward so suddenly at the same time that the monk,
who was standing on the runner, was compelled to

remain with Eugenie, and share the fate of horse
and carriole.

With great velocity—Ohguesse standing the
while upon his seat, and urging the horses forward
by blows and cries—the sleigh glided over the
frozen river until it had nearly reached the middle
of it, when, all at once, the leader was ingulfed,
and nearly dragged the shaft horse after him; but
the Indian checked him on the very verge of the
chasm, by throwing him back on his haunches with
a sudden and tremendous exertion of physical power.
At the same instant he leaped on the ice, and
cast a lasso or running noose, always carried by
carriolers for such emergencies, over the drowning
horse's head, and tightened it until he ceased to
breathe. The animal, which till then had been
kicking and struggling violently, to the great danger
of his companion and the increase of his own
peril, now became motionless, as if dead: floating
to the surface from the buoyancy caused by this
summary mode of strangulation, he was drawn out
by main force from the air-vent into which he had
broken, and laid upon the solid ice. Ohguesse then
very deliberately loosed the rope from his neck, and
the little horse began to respire, at first with great
difficulty; but in a few minutes he rose to his
feet, apparently—saving a little, fright and a cool
ablution, to which, however, the Canadian horses
of any experience are accustomed—as lively and
in as good travelling condition as before. The
sinking of the horse; the skilful checking of the
carriole; the application of the noose, and the rescue
of the animal, all passed so quickly, that the
monk had neither time to comprehend the extent
of their danger, nor leap from the sleigh with Eugenie
in his arms, or offer his assistance to the

active and experienced Indian, before it was no
longer required.

This singular and, to him, novel operation was
beheld by the traveller with surprise. Ohguesse
observing it, said quietly, as he signed to them to
take their seats again in the carriole,

“Choke him—save um life!”

Eugenie declined getting into the vehicle again;
and the monk, bidding Ohguesse drive forward to
the bank, aided the footsteps of his lovely charge,
who neither by shriek nor word betrayed alarm
during the imminent danger she had been in, and
only showed her sex's dependance on the more
lordly being, man, by clinging instinctively to her
companion. He, in his turn, asserted his manly
prerogative by clasping her in his arms, when for
a moment he thought, by the cracking of the ice
around them, that they were all about to be ingulfed
together.

The Indian, resuming his upright attitude on the
front seat of the carriole, first having turned the
leader loose to follow in the track of the vehicle,
guided his remaining horse aside from the chasm,
and, uttering a shrill cry, urged him forward at his
former speed. He had nearly gained the shore in
safety when the travellers, who were slowly following
on foot, beheld him suddenly check the
wild career of his steed, then hesitate for an instant;
the next moment, cheered and encouraged
by a loud and prolonged cry, they saw the horse
leap a fissure several feet wide, formed by the
shelving of the ice where it had been broken
and piled by the current, which at this place flowed
unusually swift; and both uttered an exclamation
of surprise and alarm as the carriole bounded
over the gap after the flying horse, who did not
cease his wild career until he had galloped half
way up the opposite bank of the river.

Hastening forward, and avoiding the fissure by
ascending the stream a few yards, they regained the
carriole, and, under the skilful guidance of Ohguesse,
were once more on their way. Their road
now lay along the banks of the river: the sun had
appeared above the horizon, and the air became
perceptibly milder. Stopping occasionally during
the day at some lonely farmhouse to refresh themselves
and their horses, on which occasions Eugenie
abandoned her clerical disguise, and was
represented by the monk as a novice on her way
to a convent in Quebec, an hour before sunset
they were slowly ascending a hill, from the summit
of which was a distant view of the St. Lawrence,
when Ohguesse, whose restless eyes were
constantly on the alert, uttered his usual exclamation
“Eh!” but now with an accent of surprise.

The lovers were at that moment absorbed in a
low and very interesting conversation, in which
Cupid was doing his best to make execution in
both of their hearts.

“Why will you not answer to the name of
Walter, then?” asked Eugenie, continuing the conversation
to which we have just alluded, but which
it is not necessary to record.

“Because I fear you will think more of that
Norman knight De Lancy than—”

“Yourself! brother,” she said, in a tone of raillery.
“So you have a spice of jealousy in your
composition, I see!”

“I know not if it be jealousy or no,” he said, in
a low tone of tenderness; “but I would rather hear
those sweet lips pronounce my own name.”

“Then tell me that name, mysterious brother of
mine; and if it is a pretty one, and not Peter nor
Paul, Moses nor Aaron, I will, if it so pleases you,
try and teach the lips aforesaid to speak it.”

“Edward; call me Edward.”

“Edward!” she repeated, in a voice of thrilling
sweetness; “Edward! 'tis a sweet name! I think
I shall like it better than Walter.”

“If Edward himself,” he said, in a voice half
serious, “be as dear to Eugenie as the memory
of Walter, then—”

Here the lover's speech, which doubtless would
have been a model for all future lovers on such
occasions, was interrupted by the guttural ejaculation
of Gun, who, at the same time, indicated with
his finger the objects that had broken his habitual
taciturnity.

“What do you see, Ohguesse?” he asked.

“One, two, four men! horse much break um
down. No come yet, by-um-by.”

The monk, comprehending the Indian's meaning
rather by the direction of his finger and eyes than
by his words, turned and saw on the opposite shore
four horsemen, travelling southward at a slow and
weary pace.

“One of them is the peasant Luc Giles,” said
the monk, surveying them attentively; “I would
recognise his gaunt frame and stoop in the shoulders,
which I particularly noted as he rode off from
the convent, among a thousand. Those are his
mates with him, as he terms them. They are now
returning, Eugenie, as that singular boy, Zacharie,
said they would soon do, crestfallen, and, no doubt,
aware that they have been deceived by the lad's
address.”

“See!” exclaimed Eugenie, who became equally
interested with her companion in the motions of
the party, “one of them stops and points towards
us, and now they are all looking this way.”

There were visible certain signs among the
party which convinced the monk that the carriole

had not only attracted their notice, but had become
an interesting object of attention.

“They will pursue us!” exclaimed Eugenie.
“One of them has already dismounted, and is descending
the bank to the ice. See! another tries
in vain to urge his horse down the precipice, and
also dismounts! Blessed Virgin protect us! How
can you resist, Edward, at such a disadvantage?”
she added, observing him bring his pistols round to
the ready grasp of his hand; “oh, do not think of
resisting. Hasten, Ohguesse, and get up this long
and tedious hill! We may yet gain the top before
they can reach us on foot.”

“Be not alarmed, dear Eugenie,” said the young
officer, pressing her hand, which she had unconsciously,
in the anxiety of her feelings, placed in
his; “Ohguesse, who will no doubt prove himself
a serviceable gun on this occasion, this brace of
pistols, and myself, will make our numbers equal.
Ha! one of them is already on the ice.”

“If that be their leader, Edward, who is foremost,
and, from his size and clamour, I take it to be
him you call Luc Giles, he is not seconded by his
men, who point to their horses, and seem to plead
their broken-down condition. Marie! Heaven be
thanked!” she suddenly ejaculated, yet instantly
crossing herself for uttering an exclamation of joy
at the event she beheld.

The individual to whom she alluded, and who
was, indeed, Luc Giles himself, not being able to
make his own horse leave the road to take to the
river, had gone back, after trying the strength of
the ice, and mounted one of those belonging to his
companions. Forcing him by dint of spurring,
much swearing, and a shower of blows, upon the
ice, he was galloping across the river alone, when,
all at once, horse and rider sunk before the eyes of

the pursued, and drew from Eugenie unconsciously
the exclamation of gratitude she had uttered.

“Hola, Ohguesse,” cried the monk, “we must
not let him perish!”

He sprung from the carriole as he spoke, and
with youthful ardour and impetuosity would have
hastened to the aid of his pursuer, when he beheld
the companions of the horseman running with loud
cries to his rescue: he detained the carriole on
the brow of the hill, which they had now gained,
long enough to see them drag the drowning man
from the water, although with the loss of his horse.
Congratulating Eugenie on their escape, he pointed
out to her the St. Lawrence far to the north, glittering
in the beams of the setting sun like a belt of
silver, and then ordered Ohguesse to drive forward
with the best speed his horses could exert.

As the night gathered around them, the wind,
which had been light during the day, increased in
violence, drifting the fine particles of snow (by the
habitans termed la poudre) into their faces, the
intensely frozen crystals inflicting extreme pain
whenever they came in contact with the skin.
Frequently it swept past them with the strength
of a hurricane, lifting light clouds of frozen snow
from the surface, along which it was whirled in
wild eddies, and so thickening the atmosphere that
both horses and driver became bewildered and unable
to hold on their way. The night grew dark,
and their path became every moment more uncertain.
The occasional howl of a wolf could be heard
in the forest not far from the road; and the fall of
huge trees, torn up by their roots, crashing and
echoing through the woods, the hooting of scared
owls, and the mingled roar and whistling of the
wind, contributed to the dreariness and gloom of
their situation.

Forgetful of his own comfort, the young soldier
was altogether absorbed in protecting his companion,
and seeking, by every tender and assiduous
attention that love or chivalry could suggest, to
shield her person from the effects of the rude storm,
which, although the skies were cloudless, was more
severe than if accompanied with falling snow. At
length the wind and driving snow became insupportable,
and the intellects of Ohguesse were so
bewildered that he could proceed no farther. Dropping
the reins as the horses, unable to continue in
the road, voluntarily stopped, he said, with his customary
ejaculation,

“Eh! Horse um no go. Ohguesse no see.
Priest sleep in woods by-um-by to-night.”

The traveller, at this announcement, shaded his
eyes from the icy blasts with his hand, and looked
around upon the gloomy forest in which they were
blockaded by the drifts. Satisfied from his survey
that it would be impossible to proceed much farther
unless the wind abated, he was about to communicate
the necessity of halting to his companion, when
the Indian suddenly, and with a degree of animation
he had not before exhibited, said,

“Eh! Ohguesse smell um supper!”

The monk, who could not boast a similar exercise
of the olfactory powers, advised him to go forward,
that being the direction in which his nasal
organ was levelled, and see if any habitation was
near them. Ohguesse, after snuffing up the wind
once or twice, like a hound when he scents his
game, left the carriole, and soon disappeared in
the darkness. In a few moments he returned, and,
without speaking, resumed the reins, and urged
forward the horses by dint of beating. In a short
time, after ascending a slight eminence, their eyes
were gladdened by the glimmer of a light in the

window of a cottage not far before them. The
horses now moved forward with good-will, as if
sharing with the travellers the prospect of food and
shelter. As they approached the dwelling, which
stood near the road, the voices of two or three
children were heard mingling in a song; and, although
the carriole drove close up to the door, it
still continued, as if their own music had drowned
that of the merry sleigh-bells, which otherwise
should have notified them of the approach of
strangers and travellers.

“What a contrast, this cheerfully-lighted cottage
and these happy voices,” said Eugenie, “to our
dreary situation a few minutes ago. But stay,
Edward! Ohguesse, do not interrupt them! Let
us listen to their song before we enter. It is a
familiar one, and recalls days of childhood. You
have no idea, Edward,” she touchingly continued,
“how delightful are the emotions awakened by
this simple Canadian song, after having heard, for
so many months, the monotonous and lugubrious
psalms and holy ballads of the nuns. Listen!
there is welcome in their words.”

Yielding to the wish of Eugenie, the monk paused
at the door, while she leaned on his arm and listened
to the youthful singers, who were aided at
intervals in the higher parts of their hymn by a remarkably
soft female voice:

“Here is indeed welcome,” said the monk, as
the song ceased; “let us enter this abode of happiness
and hospitality.”

Springing from the carriole, he knocked at the
door, which was immediately opened by a pale
and interesting-looking woman, wrapped in a gray
mantelet, and bearing a light in her hand. Without
betraying surprise at their sudden appearance,
like one accustomed to exercise the duties of hospitality
to strangers, she welcomed them with a
quiet smile on her cheerful countenance.

We should delight to draw the picture of domestic
happiness that here offers itself to our pen,
did the limits to which fashion has prescribed the
modern novelist, viz., two volumes duodecimo, allow
him to turn aside to every fountain, wander through
every rural lane, and linger under every shady tree,
that might tempt him from the path it is especially
his business to pursue. But, providentially
for both author and reader, times are changed since
the novel-reading public were content to read an
eight or, peradventure, ten volume novel, such as
the indefatigable Richardson turned from his pen

with merciless celerity. The modern palate, happily,
is contented with two thin volumes, and surfeited
with three. Therefore, although authors
may have matériel floating in their brains sufficient,
if judiciously diffused, for ten or even a round
dozen of duodecimoes, by this improvement in the
tastes of the present generation they are necessitated
to condense, or compress, as it were, their
abundant stock of ideas into the substantial compass
of the aforesaid brace of tomes. This is intimated
lest, to the disparagement of modern novelists,
it might be thought that the cause of this
modification of the public tastes lay in the depreciation
and diminution of current coin of authors'
brains, and not in its true source, the public themselves.

The reception of the travellers was characteristic
of the Canadian peasantry; and they were at
a loss which most to admire, the air of domestic
comfort prevailing within the cottage, the excellence
and abundance of the fare cheerfully spread
before them on a table covered with a snow-white
napkin, or the lightsomeness of heart and unaffected
hospitality of manners displayed by the peasant
and his wife.

The Canadian peasant or habitan—especially is
it true of those who are of French origin—is happily
free from that servility which is the prominent
feature of their class in European states. On the
contrary, he possesses manly freedom of speech
and action, natural ease of manner, buoyancy of
spirits, and a lively and enthusiastic temper. He
is, moreover, proprietor of the soil, cultivating
his own little farm, and enjoying the comforts
of life as the reward of his individual industry.
Religious, intelligent, industrious, and peculiarly
susceptible of an attachment to domestic enjoyments—to

the growth of which virtue the long
Canadian winters, when the hearth becomes their
little world, in a great measure contributes—the
Canadian peasantry afford a striking illustration of
the ennobling power of free institutions when operating
on the interests of such a class of men, elevating
them at once to the rank and dignity in the scale
of society which is their birthright, but from the
exercise of which feudal tyranny, by levelling them
with the brutes, has hitherto alone debarred them.

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE MARCH.

After resting three hours beneath the hospitable
roof of the peasant, the wind having subsided,
and the calm, clear beauty of the night inviting
them to continue their journey, the travellers
once more set forward. The horses, refreshed,
moved freely over the road, the bells that hung
on their harness jingling merrily, and infusing that
sort of spirit into their motions which the music of
the drum and fife is known to produce in a body of
soldiers. The young officer and his fair companion
seemed also to have imbibed new life and
animation, and, yielding to the exhilarating influence
of the time, conversed cheerfully together,
the merry laugh of Eugenie often ringing above
the music of the merry bells. Ohguesse, too,
judging from his frequent ejaculatory addresses to
his steeds, appeared to have been thawed into a
more social mood by the hospitality of the peasants'

board and hearth; and altogether, with high spirits,
the carriolers glided swiftly on their way, lighted
by the stars shining with that sparkling brilliancy
which they emit only in winter.

They had been about half an hour on their road
when the northern lights suddenly appeared with
extraordinary brilliancy, dimming the stars, and
diffusing a soft glow like that of twilight over the
earth. With an exclamation of delight, Eugenie
drew the attention of her companion to the beautiful
changes their corruscations presented. At
one moment they would assume the form of a waving
spear of pale flame; then, shooting upward
and expanding till they overreached the zenith, become
a broad belt of light, which slowly faded
into the sky. The next moment, sheets of light,
of various colours and degrees of brilliancy, floated
across the heavens, and broke into masses,
that appeared like golden banners and plumes
of warriors waving and dancing along the horizon.
These gradually disappeared, assuming a thousand
fantastic shapes before they entirely vanished, but
were instantly replaced by gorgeous beams of purple
and golden light, radiating from a bright central
spot, and spreading in a vast resplendent star
over half the firmament; while columns of pale,
beautiful light rose perpendicularly from the horizon,
as if to support the starry dome. Suddenly
the whole magnificent temple would disappear,
leaving “not a wreck behind.” Other forms and
strange shapes, more brilliant and richly covered
with prismatic hues, as if a rainbow had been dissolved
and its fragments scattered over the northern
skies, succeeded, and these were yet followed by
others, until their eyes were dazzled and their
imaginations bewildered by the wild magnificence
of the scene. After assuming a myriad of shapes,

this gorgeous phenomenon, in which Eugenie imagined
she could trace innumerable graceful outlines
of familiar objects, entirely disappeared, leaving the
northern skies cold, dark, and cheerless as before.

The dawn found the travellers within two leagues
of Quebec, and near the St. Lawrence, which
spread its unfrozen bosom before them like a lake.
As the sun rose, the opposite shores of this majestic
river were visible two leagues distant, white with
snow, yet variegated by cottages, churches, and
villages; while on their right, far to the northeast,
rose the towers and citadel of Quebec, crowning a
lofty promontory, which stood boldly out into the
broad river like an island of rock.

The travellers gazed on the distant city with
various and mingled emotions. In the mind of
Eugenie it was associated with home and its endearments.
And her eyes sparkled with pleasure
as she pointed out familiar objects, and spoke of
her return to the abode of her childhood and youth,
and to the arms of her maternal friend. Her anticipated
happiness was, nevertheless, alloyed by
the reflection that it was to be purchased by a
separation, which, so busy had love been in her
young heart, she began to contemplate with sadness.
The young soldier viewed the proud citadel
as the theatre of war and the gathering-point of
armies; its walls soon to resound with the roar of
cannon, and where important events were speedily
about to transpire. He contemplated it as a
soldier, and as a foe to its masters. With his national
feelings, however, were mingled others with
which Cupid had more to do than Mars. There
he was to take leave of Eugenie, the lovely partner
of his journey, the sharer of its fatigues, the
participater in all its dangers; it was, therefore,

not without emotion, which found ready sympathy
in her own bosom, that he said,

“There, dear Eugenie, is your journey's end.
My dream of happiness is terminated. It was too
exquisite to last. This morning, Eugenie, we
must part; I, to go whither my fortunes lead me;
you to the embraces of those you love. Forget
me and be happy.”

“Edward!” said the novice, laying her hand
upon his arm, and speaking in a soft tone of reproof,
“why will you talk so strangely? Do not
imbitter by your sad words the last hour we are
to be together. Never can I forget the debt of
gratitude I owe you.”

“Gratitude, Eugenie?” he repeated, bitterly.
“Only gratitude?”

Eugenie blushed deeply, and was about to reply
with drooping eyelids, but with an arch expression
on her lips that contradicted the mute and timid
glances of her eyes, when Ohguesse drew up at a
cabin on the verge of the water, and, turning inquiringly
to the monk, said,

“Priest hab boat, eh?”

The monk looked around and saw that they
were at a small landing-place or ferry-house, near
which, attached to a rude flotilla, swung a batteau
capable of containing a dozen persons. Under the
active superintendence of Ohguesse the boat was
soon ready to receive its passengers. Before leaving
the carriole the monk examined the directions
for his route given him by the Chevalier de Levi,
and ascertained that he was opposite the residence
of the priest Guise, which was on the north side
of the river a few miles above Quebec, and that
the ferry-boat would land him at the hamlet near
which it was situated. Rewarding the faithful
Ohguesse for his services, and bidding him adieu,

the travellers exchanged the carriole for the less
comfortable and more dangerous batteau, and, after
a perilous passage through masses of ice, constantly
floating by and momently threatening to crush their
boat, which was only saved from destruction by the
dexterity and experience of two Canadian boatmen,
they at length gained the northern shore.

The abode of the priest Guisé was in the only
remaining wing of an antiquated brick chapel, which
at an earlier period had been constructed by the
missionaries for their aboriginal converts. It was
built on the side of a rocky terrace, and so near
the water that the river washed its walls. Proceeding
for a quarter of a mile by a rude path
along the shore, the travellers, after ascending a
few natural steps in the rock, came to an open
gate in a high wall enclosing the edifice. Entering
it, they traversed a covered passage, and came to a
door at its extremity, which was closed and locked.
Applying for admission with that good-will which
their fatigue and the severity of the season rendered
expedient, their appeal was answered by a tall,
swarthy man in the garb of a priest, with exceedingly
penetrating gray eyes and harsh features,
who, without inviting them to enter, waited in austere
silence for them to make known their business.

“This is the abode of the curé Guisé?” observed
the monk, interrogatively.

“I am the curé Guisé, and this is my abode,”
he replied, in a voice that corresponded with his
features.

“Then it is with you my business lies,” said the
monk, without noticing the rudeness of his reception.

The curé grumbled something in the way of an
invitation to enter, and, replacing the bar upon the
door, preceded them with an impatient stride towards
a small room, through the open door of which

the travellers beheld, with no little degree of pleasure,
a fire burning with a bright and cheerful blaze.
They entered the room, which was long and narrow,
with a low ceiling, and a single window commanding
a prospect of the river and Quebec. Without
ceremony they advanced to the fire, while their
host, closing the door, seated himself at a small
table near the fireplace, whereon, it being noon,
stood a pitcher of water, a broiled fish, and a loaf
of brown bread: in the discussion of these, from
their dilapidated condition, it was very apparent
he had been interrupted by the arrival of the travellers;
and to this circumstance they were charitably
disposed to attribute his ill-humour.

Without noticing them he applied himself diligently
to his repast, and by the time they had expelled
the cold from their limbs, the fish, water,
and bread had disappeared within the copious jaws
of the reverend curé. Then turning round, for his
back had been towards them during his meal, he
looked more complacently upon his guests, eying
them, nevertheless, with very close scrutiny. Eugenie,
by the advice of the young officer, had resumed
her disguise, and, muffled in her cowl and
furs, passed very well as a priest, though a rather
diffident one, and somewhat small of stature. During
the scrutiny of the priest she shrunk as much
as possible behind her companion, who, apprehensive
that her timidity would lead to the detection
of her disguise, abruptly addressed his host:

“Thou knowest the Chevalier de Levi, brother?”

The priest started to his feet at the name, bent
his eyes fixedly on the speaker, and, cautiously
glancing his eyes at the disguised novice, replied
evasively,

“I know a holy man whom men call the Father
Etienne.”

“Then thou knowest the Chevalier de Levi.
He bade me give you this pacquet,” said the monk,
placing the correspondence of the chevalier in his
hands.

The priest ran his eye over the superscriptions
of the letters, glancing at intervals at his guest.
Catching his own address on one of the epistles,
he hastily tore the seal, and perused it with an excited
countenance. Then, approaching the disguised
soldier, he said,

“Brother, thou art welcome; and for the news of
which thou art the bearer, doubly so. The time has
at last come when the dignity of the church shall
be restored, and the Canadas be free from the yoke
of heretics. Where left you the army of invaders,
who come friends, and not enemies, to Canada?”

“Within four days they will be on the opposite
shore, ready to co-operate with the other division.
Can you give me any information of the movements
of General Montgomery?”

“There is a rumour that he has already captured
Montreal, and is on his march to Quebec;
but I gave no credence to it, not being informed
of the invasion. The news you now bring renders
it probable.”

“It is, without doubt, true,” said the soldier, with
confidence. “Where is your governor, Sir Guy
Carleton?”

“With the troops near Montreal, endeavouring
to defend it and the surrounding country against
any attacks of the colonists. If Montreal be already
in your hands, he will doubtless return to
Quebec by forced marches. The city is at this
moment nearly defenceless; and if Colonel Arnold
would cross the river to-morrow, it would fall
into his hands without a struggle for its defence.”

“If Montgomery can out-general Carleton, and

gain a march on him,” observed the young officer,
“the city will fall into his hands before Arnold
arrives. But it is important that he should be informed
of our approach before Carleton can learn
it.”

“The fate of the country depends on the possession
of Quebec,” said the priest, earnestly.
“Carleton knows this full well, and will not fail to
avail himself of every means for its preservation.
Montgomery will, perhaps, hesitate to advance
without hearing from your division; and if he
gives Carleton an opportunity of taking advantage
of his delay, the city will be re-enforced, and its
capture difficult.”

The young man paced the room for several
minutes after the priest had ceased speaking with
an impetuous tread and a flushed brow; then, suddenly
stopping, he said,

“What you say is too true. Would to God
Arnold were here! Delay will be fatal to us.
Montgomery must be informed at once of the approach
of our division, so that a junction of the
forces may be effected as soon as possible. You
can furnish horses for my brother and myself?”

“When will you set forth?”

“So soon as you can get horses ready and we
can take a little refreshment,” said the officer,
glancing rather despairingly towards the empty
dishes upon the cure's dining-table.

As the intelligence the officer had received rendered
it necessary that he should immediately continue
his journey, and as there would be danger in
going into the city now that the rumour of the fall
of Montreal had reached it, it became expedient
that Eugenie either should be committed to the
charge of the Father Guisé, and trust to him for a
conveyance to the city, which would have subjected

her to detection and annoyance, or continue on
with her companion to the camp of Montgomery,
which he expected to reach that night. Eugenie
reluctantly decided on adopting the latter plan, after
he had promised that, immediately on their arrival
at the camp, she should be placed under the protection
of General Montgomery until she could be
restored to her friends.

In less than an hour after their arrival at the insulated
abode of the priest Guisé, they were once more
on their way, coursing with a pair of fleet horses
along the shores of the St. Lawrence, leaving Quebec,
with its warlike battlements, far behind.

“Farewell, for a brief space, proud citadel,” said
the monk, as an angle in the road concealed the city
from their view; “when next I survey your walls
it will be in other guise than this monk's garb.
But it is a garb dearly prized, my Eugenie,” he continued,
gently removing her hood and seeking her
eyes, “and one that I shall hereafter hold sacred, as
having been the means of linking my fate with the
loveliest and sweetest of human beings. In three
hours, or, at least, by evening, we shall be at Trois
Rivières, where, doubtless, we shall fall in with the
army. There, Eugenie,” he added, sadly, “you
will find more befitting protection than mine.”

Eugenie slightly returned the pressure of his
hand with which he accompanied his words, but
made no reply.

They journeyed with great rapidity, learning the
success of the American arms and the capture of
Montreal from every tongue. At length, about ten
leagues from Quebec, on gaining the summit of
a hill that overlooked the river for many miles,
and from which they could trace their road for a
great distance as it wound along the shore, they
were surprised by discovering the approach of a

body of troops in the plain beneath, and within less
than half a league of them.

“Hold!” cried the monk to his guide or postillion
—for Father Guisé had hired the traineau, horses,
and driver for his guests from the keeper of an inn
in the adjacent hamlet, who sometimes kept relays
for the mails between Quebec and Montreal—“can
these be Montgomery's forces so near? But there
is too much scarlet in that host, and yonder flies
King George's standard.”

“It must be Carleton, who has caught the alarm,
and is making a forced march to throw himself
into Quebec,” said Eugenie, with animation.

“And you look, Eugenie,” replied the young soldier,
laughing, “as if you wished him success.”

“I have known Sir Guy Carleton from childhood,”
answered Eugenie; “and though I feel as
the daughter of Colonel de Lisle, I also feel an
interest in an old friend, though he may be of those
against whom my father drew his sword.”

“No doubt you feel a deeper interest in a titled
Englishman than in a simple colonist,” said the
young soldier, with that morbidness of feeling to
which lovers are sometimes subject. “Perhaps,”
he added, ironically, “Miss de Lisle would like
to exchange, in case this should prove Carleton's
army, her present protector for one more noble.”

“The exchange could not be effected without
exposing you to danger, Edward,” she quietly observed,
without taking any notice of his manner.
“I am anxious to return to Quebec; but, if Montgomery
is so near, I will not alter my original determination.
Is it really Carleton who approaches,
do you think, Edward?”

“It is,” he said, with animation. “Oh for one
hour's advance of him with the gallant Montgomery's
legion! But see! their vanguard is winding

round the angle of yonder wood. We must withdraw
from the highway if we would not both return
under escort to Quebec.”

He directed the guide to turn back, and, descending
the hill a short distance, they entered a sledge-road
leading into the forest on their right, and in a
few minutes were entirely concealed from observation
in a thicket of larches. The young soldier,
however, from a mingled curiosity and a desire to
ascertain the number of troops, accompanied by
Eugenie, left the traineau, and cautiously approached
the highroad. Here concealed in a thick clump
of young pines, where, unless actually sought after,
they could remain undiscovered, they awaited the
march of the detachment past their post of observation.

They had been there but a short time when a score
of troopers, with a noble-looking youth at their head,
the advanced guard of the army, came trotting over
the brow of the hill, with sabres clashing, spurs
and bridles ringing, and attended with all those
martial and blood-stirring sounds which characterize
the movements of dragoons rather than the less
imposing march of infantry.

“I should like to measure swords with thee,
young gallant,” said the monk, mentally, as their
youthful leader approached, prancing before his
troop, which followed in a column four abreast;
and, descending the hill at a round trot, the whole
body dashed past him, stern and silent, and disappeared
in a wood at the foot of the hill.

A quarter of an hour elapsed, when a heavy, dull
sound, like the continuous noise of a distant water-fall,
fell on their ears, and gradually increased till the
ground seemed to shake beneath them. The monk
watched eagerly in the direction of the approaching
sound, and in a few moments saw a single horseman,

in the uniform of an aiddecamp, with waving plume
and drawn sword, make his appearance on the brow
of the hill, rein up his spirited horse as he gained
the summit, and survey, with a quick glance, the
descent before him. Then casting a look down
the declivity he had just ascended, he paused until
another officer joined him. Both, putting spurs to
their horses, then galloped down the road out of
sight just as the helmets of a platoon of infantry
appeared over the brow behind them. Another
and another platoon followed, till a whole column
appeared, all marching in good order, shoulder to
shoulder, like the steady advance of one man, and
in a compact body moved down the hill, without
music, and with a dead, heavy tramp, for which
Eugenie, as she listened to it with sensations of
awe, in vain searched her imagination for a simile,
so unearthly was the sound, so unlike any she had
ever heard.

The rear of this column of regular troops was
still in sight when a cavalcade of officers appeared
trotting slowly along to adapt their movements to
the march of the infantry. They were seven or
eight in number, the majority of whom were quite
young men, and all but two of them wore the British
uniform: these were in the light simple dress
adopted by the Canadian cavaliers who had volunteered
their services for the war, some of them
bringing and commanding companies of their own
levying.

In the midst of this group rode an elderly officer,
in whom, to a gentlemanly and strikingly military
appearance, was united that manly and intrepid air
characteristic of the British soldier. He was in
conversation with an aiddecamp who rode by his
side. Halting a moment on the ridge across which
the road wound, he surveyed with a military eye

the route before him, and then at a slow pace again
moved forward, passing so near the grove of pines,
which stood within a few feet of the highway, that
a portion of his conversation was audible to the
concealed travellers.

“If Colonel Arnold, as this rebel styles himself,”
said the superior officer, who, from the insignia of
his rank, was a colonel, and commander of the battalion,
“should arrive at Quebec before us, M`Lean
will hardly hold out against a vigorous attack.”

“If the intelligence we received at Montreal be
true,” replied the aid; “but the messenger sent
yesterday by Colonel M`Lean reported that nothing
had yet been heard from him.”

“Were he already at Point Levi, ay, in possession
of Quebec, he should not hold it twenty-four
hours after our arrival,” said the other.

“If he is like this Hibernian Montgomery,” observed
a young officer, with a light mustache on
his upper lip, “he will take Quebec before we can
throw our forces into it.”

“No men fight so well or desperately as rebels,”
remarked the elder officer. “These colonists may
probably, at first, succeed in a few enterprises, but
the rebellion eventually will be crushed. M`Lean
is a gallant soldier, and, though he has but a handful
of men, and two thirds of the line of walls must
be left undefended, he will not capitulate so long
as he has a man left to apply a match or draw a
trigger.”

“For but one hour of Montgomery!” exclaimed
the impatient monk, as they passed by and disappeared
in the forest.

“St! my hasty knight,” said Eugenie, placing her
hand on his mouth. “You will not have even a
minute of your own if those fierce-looking men
discover us,” she added, glancing with some alarm

towards a second division of the army which that
moment appeared, and by the music of drum and
fife marched by with a lively step, its prolonged
column winding, like a huge centipede, down the
hill, till it disappeared in the forest at its base.
Another column followed this, preceded by two or
three officers possessing very little of the military
air. This body of troops was without uniforms,
irregular in its appearance, and unsteady in its
march. The soldiers or volunteers who composed
it evinced, by their independent movements as individuals,
a sovereign contempt for the simultaneous
planting of feet to the ground, the full and regular
front, and stern silence characterizing the regular
troops that had preceded them. They marched,
or rather crowded forward like a mob which has
endeavoured to assume something of a military aspect,
some with their muskets slung across their
backs, others carrying them like spades over their
shoulders, as if familiar with the mode; others were
entirely without them, but their absence was accounted
for in the appearance of a huge negro
tramping along behind with some half a score of
these weapons of war lashed on his back, doubtless
to be resumed by their owners in case of need.
Some were smoking, one or two were singing the
fag end of a ballad, while the majority were exercising
their tongues in a loud and boisterous manner.
As they went by some of them straggled
along the road so widely that our travellers in ambush
momently apprehended discovery from an accidental
detour upon their place of concealment.

They had nearly all passed by when a loiterer
in a foxskin cap, with the brush hanging down his
back, and in a capote of shaggy furs, stumbled so
near their place of concealment that Eugenie uttered

an involuntary exclamation, which only the thickness
of the fur about his ears prevented him from
hearing. Another, who followed him closely, still
further alarmed them for their safety by breaking
off a sprig of larch from one of the bushes screening
their persons, and sticking it in his bonnet like
a plume, with which he moved on after his comrade
with a prouder gait than before.

When the last straggler of a miserable herd of
noisy camp-followers of both sexes, and several
baggage-wagons had passed by and disappeared,
Eugenie drew a long breath, as if relieved from
anxiety, felt rather for her companion than for herself,
and said, in a lively tone,

“Marie be thanked! You are now safe.”

“You are not quite a soldier yet, my Eugenie,”
he playfully said, “although you have just beheld
the march of an army, if these few companies can
be dignified with such an appellation. The vanguard
is yet to pass. This long serpent has a tail
as well as head and body. Hark! there sounds a
bugle! They are calling in and warning the stragglers
to fall into the line of march and keep up with
the main body. See! they approach!”

As he spoke, a squadron of about thirty horse
appeared, with a banner fluttering in their van, on
the brow of the hill, preceded by a trumpeter, who
halted as they gained the summit, and blew several
notes loud and long. The party then rode slowly
down the hill, laughing and talking in the rude and
reckless manner characteristic of soldiers, who,
ever at war with death and familiar with its aspect,
give less thought to it, even on the eve of battle,
than peaceful citizens, accustomed to contemplate
it less familiarly and under different features and
circumstances, are prepared to believe.

After this troop had swept past the disguised
officer, whose bosom glowed while these warlike
scene passed before his eyes, burning with impatience
to mingle in the approaching strife, he hastened
back to the traineau. In a few minutes they
regained the high-road, now trodden solid by the
feet of many hundred men, and proceeded on their
route towards the camp of Montgomery.

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE CAMP.

The first division of the colonial, or, as it styled
itself, the American army, which, led by the gallant
Montgomery, invaded Canada by the way of Lake
Champlain, had been victorious in every contest in
which it had been engaged. Montreal, Longueuil,
Chambly, and St. John's, with other important posts,
successively surrendered to its arms, while military
stores, artillery, provisions, and camp equipments,
in great quantities, fell into its hands. All
Upper Canada, in fact, by the fall of its strongest
post, Montreal, was in possession of the Americans.
General Montgomery wisely determined to follow
up his brilliant successes by forming an immediate
junction with the second division of the invading
army under Colonel Arnold. For this purpose he
resolved to advance on Quebec without delay,
hoping to meet a messenger, as it had been preconcerted
between himself and that officer, despatched
to inform him of his approach, and thereby

enable him to execute his plans for a speedy and
effectual co-operation.

General Carleton, at this period governor of
Canada, on the breaking out of hostilities between
the American colonies and Great Britain, had
promptly marched to defend Montreal and the adjacent
frontier against any incursions of the rebels.
But, unsuccessful in his exertions to save that
place, and alarmed by rumours that a second army
had marched through the wilderness of Maine
against Quebec, he trembled for its safety; for he
was aware that the government of the province
was lodged in the hands of those who held possession
of that citadel, then styled the Gibraltar of the
western world. He resigned, therefore, to Montgomery
the present fruits of his victories, and, by
an able movement, drew off his forces and advanced
rapidly to its relief. After accompanying the detachment
a few leagues, impatient at its slow progress,
he threw himself, with a few attendants, into
a boat, that he might precede it by a quicker route.
While, with a fair wind, he sailed down the St.
Lawrence, his troops, with forced marches, were
approaching the city, within half a day's march of
which they had arrived when our travellers encountered
them.

General Montgomery, in the mean time, after
taking such steps as should secure the possession
of his conquests, followed in the track of the British
troops. Except by vague and unofficial reports,
he had not received any tidings of the success
of his coadjutor since his departure from New-York.
His anxiety to learn how far he had been
successful was, therefore, in proportion to the stake
depending on their enterprise. He was aware that
an immediate combination of their forces was necessary
to secure what advantages they had already

gained, and even to the accomplishment of anything
further. He indulged, indeed, though faintly, the
hope that Quebec had already fallen into the hands
of Colonel Arnold. This hope, however, did not
retard his movements. After a forced march, he at
length arrived within fifteen leagues of the city, and
pitched his camp in a wood the night of the day
on which our travellers, after beholding the march
of the British forces, once more resumed their
journey.

It was already midnight, when, after having
made a second visit to his outposts, and taken
those precautions against surprise which an experienced
soldier will never neglect, whether danger
be distant or immediate, General Montgomery entered
his tent, and threw himself, in his fatigue
dress, upon a pile of furs that formed his couch,
and the only protection from the snow which covered
the ground. He had just fallen asleep, when
he was disturbed by the entrance of the sentinel
who guarded his tent.

“How now, Horton?” he said, waking with that
readiness characteristic of men who sleep in the
midst of danger.

“A messenger from Colonel Arnold, sir.”

“Admit him. Now is Quebec mine!” he added,
with exultation, as the sentinel left the tent.
“Ha! a priest? But, priest or layman, you are
welcome, sir,” he said, advancing to meet the individual
whom the soldier ushered into his presence.
“What news do you bring from Colonel Arnold?”

“I left him three days since,” answered the messenger,
“marching with a weary but determined
army towards Quebec. He is now within two days
march of that place.”

“And I more than one, with Carleton between
me and its gates,” exclaimed Montgomery, with a

gesture of impatience. “Well,” he added, rapidly
pacing the tent for a few seconds, “we shall
only have a little harder work than I anticipated.
Carleton will now give us an opportunity of gazing
at the outside of his walls for a few days before we
can get on the inside. Our troops will have an
opportunity of showing their gallantry, that is all.”

“They have already shown it, sir, if what rumour
tells us be true. Permit me, General Montgomery,”
added the messenger, with grace, “to congratulate
you on the success of your arms. If
Heaven had favoured us with a speedier march
through the wilderness, I had fleshed my maiden
sword under a brave leader, at least.”

“Ha! say you so? By my sword! there spoke
the soldier then, beneath that monk's cowl,” said
Montgomery, eying him fixedly; “your words
smack of the camp rather than the cloister, fair
sir.”

“I have so long lived in cloisters and worn their
priestly vestments, that I had wellnigh turned
monk in earnest. That I have had temptation to
do so,” continued the messenger, smiling, “yourself
may judge when I bring forward the arguments
to which I had nearly yielded. But first let me put
an end to this mummery. I am no monk, General
Montgomery,” he added, throwing off his disguise,
and casting it contemptuously on the buffalo hides
at his feet, “but a volunteer in the army under
Colonel Arnold, and despatched by him with a
verbal communication to make you acquainted with
his movements and intentions.”

When General Montgomery beheld the sudden
metamorphosis of his visiter, and found that an
armed stranger stood in his presence instead of a
peaceful monk, he involuntarily placed his hand
upon the hilt of his sword, as if apprehending

treachery. But the youthful and elegant appearance
of the young soldier, united with his frank
and graceful bearing, forming a marked and favourable
contrast to the slouch and awkward monk
whom he had gazed upon but a moment before, at
once inspired him with confidence. After looking
at him steadily for an instant, he approached him,
and, cordially grasping his hand, said,

“My brave young gentleman, you are welcome
indeed. I had despaired of much accurate information
when I beheld a priest the bearer of Colonel
Arnold's communications. But now I shall learn
all. Sit with me on this buffalo's robe, which is
both my bed and sofa, and let me hear what tidings,
good or ill, you bring from my gallant colonel.”

At once relieved from any embarrassment which,
as a stranger, he might have anticipated on meeting
with General Montgonery, by the affability and
simplicity of his address, he forthwith detailed to
him, with a brevity, and intelligence, and a knowledge
of military tactics which pleased while it
surprised him, the character of the re-enforcement
on its way, the number of efficient men he might
depend upon, and the probable time of their arrival
at Point Levi and junction with his own forces.
He also informed him of the march of the British
army, of their number and condition; and finally
gave him, briefly and pleasantly, a history of his
adventures.

The communication of the young American was
received by the chief with undisguised gratification;
and his eye glowed with sanguine anticipations as,
in turn, he eloquently laid his plan of operations
against Quebec before his guest, whose intrepidity,
intelligence, and the knowledge of the business of
a soldier he had betrayed in his remarks, had inspired
his entire confidence.

“Now, my young friend, as you hold no commission
under Colonel Arnold, I shall insist on
attaching you to my staff, appointing you as one
of my aids. What say you to sharing my laurels,
young sir?” he added, smiling and taking his hand.

The young officer pressed it in silence; but the
proud glance of his dark eyes and the sudden
suffusion of his brow spoke deeper gratitude than
any words, however well chosen, could have expressed.
It was the grateful acknowledgment of
the heart, not merely of the tongue. General
Montgomery was flattered by the display of emotions
so praiseworthy in a chivalrous young man,
and felt additional assurance that his appointment
had not been misplaced. Brave and intrepid men
read each other at a glance. While he surveyed
his calm forehead, and listened to the manly tones
of his voice as he related the business of his mission,
he felt that he was in the presence of no
ordinary spirit, and with one kindred to his own.

“Now, my young major,” he said, after a few
moments' discussion of the plans he had detailed,
“you must be fatigued, and we will, for the remainder
of the night, share this hairy couch together.
It may not be so tempting as you have
found among the monks, to whose arguments in
favour of leading a monkish life, I think, you
a while since observed you had wellnigh yielded.
But, pray, why look you so intently towards the
door? Have you a brother monk without?”

“Only the arguments I spoke of, general, in the
shape of a pair of black eyes, fortified by a pair of
sweet lips.”

“Surely the novice you tell me you so romantically
eloped with cannot be in camp?”

“She is now in waiting by the fire without the

tent, and, I doubt not, some what impatient at my
long absence.”

“A Cleopatra in the train of my young Mark
Antony! It's an ominous beginning of your military
career,” said the general, playfully. “Nevertheless,”
he added, shaking his head disapprovingly,
“she must be admitted. But what can be done
with her? I cannot well make an aiddecamp of
a petticoat.”

“I have rescued her,” said the young soldier, in
a firm but respectful voice, “from gross oppression
and imprisonment, no matter by what other
names the priesthood may gloss it over. I have
brought her to your camp, General Montgomery,
to place her under your protection, until, as I have
already informed you, she can join her friends in
Quebec; for I am sufficiently conscious of the impropriety
of being longer her protector.”

“You are, indeed, wonderfully discreet,” remarked
the general, with humour, “to deem a young
cavalier of some twenty-one years, with a tolerable
face and figure, to say no more, an indifferent
duenna for a wild, runaway nun. Well, I suppose
I must give an audience to this Delilah, and I will
forthwith consign her to the care of my good lady,
who is not far behind. Cupid defend me! if she
be as lovely as you have described her to me, I
mistrust my worthy dame will be jealous of my
protectorship. But favour me with a sight of this
fair vestal, under whose auspices you have entered
the army.”

Returning the playful irony of his general with
a smile and blush, he left the tent, and in a few
seconds returned with the novice, still disguised as
a priest.

“What, ho! another monk? We shall have our
camp converted into a holy brotherhood, and go to

battle by sound of mass instead of fife and drum.
Ha! another masquerade? Verily, young gallant,
you are bringing back the days of romance, when
knight and lady went mumming on adventure
through the land. But if ever angel were imbodied,
one has descended into my tent this night!”
he exclaimed, as Eugenie, at the solicitation of the
young soldier, dropped her disguise, at the same
time partly unveiling her face, and displayed features,
the brilliant and striking cast of which must
have impressed the most indifferent beholder.

“Pardon a soldier's rudeness of speech, lady,”
he said, gracefully taking her hand, and pressing it
to his lips with that courtly and profound respect
which characterized the formal gentlemen of the
day, “I know your story. If a convent's walls
could have held out to you any charms, or if your
tone of mind and disposition had fitted you for a
monastic life, then, perhaps, it would have been
best that you should have remained with your
spiritual guardians. Nay, dear young lady, I do
not censure you! I am merely expressing an
opinion, unimportant, however, to my purpose.
From this moment look on me as your paternal
guardian. In the morning I will send you, with a
suitable escort, to Trois Rivières, to the hospitable
mansion of a friend to our cause, Colonel Olney,
who will place you with your friends the earliest
opportunity. There also you will meet Mrs.
Montgomery, in whom you will find a lady as
amiable and dignified as she is lovely. I will drop
a note to her by you. In a few hours after leaving
the camp you will be with her. Do not hesitate to
embrace my offer, Miss de Lisle. It is made in
affection and good-will. For you to remain longer
with my young knight here will be, you are doubtless
aware,” he continued, smiling, “in some degree

indecorous, according to the notions of our
provincial maidens.”

Although affected by the kind manner and friendly
words of the dignified chief, the lovely novice,
from time to time, while he was speaking, cast
timid and troubled glances towards her late travelling
companion. He interpreted her looks, and,
drawing near, took her hand and said softly,

“Now, dearest Eugenie, preserve that noble fortitude
which has so repeatedly challenged my
admiration. Accept the kind invitation of General
Montgomery, and take shelter beneath the hospitable
roof of Colonel Olney. If you will allow me
to do so, I will accompany you part of the way.
Your own heart must tell you,” he added, still more
tenderly, “that I would accompany you quite to
Trois Rivières; nay, never leave you! But duty
to my country, honour, everything dear to a man
and a soldier, bid me tear myself away. Tell me
that you will comply with General Montgomery's
request, and you will make me happier than I can
express.”

Eugenie listened in silence, and, when he ceased,
in the abandonment of the moment, overwhelmed
by a vivid sense of her destitution and loneliness,
heedless of the presence of a stranger, and forgetful
of all else but the proposal which was to separate
her from one who so entirely possessed her
heart, she flung herself weeping upon his shoulder.
The impassioned lover imprinted a kiss upon her
forehead as he supported her form. The touch
of his bold lip electrified her, and restored her at
once to self-possession. Hastily disengaging herself,
covered with confusion, from the arm which
half encircled her waist, though so lightly that she
scarcely felt that it sustained her, she said softly,

“Anything, Edward; your honour is dearer to

me than my love. Go where it calls you. Think
not of me. Do your duty on the field of battle, while
I fly to the altar to pray for you. Sir,” she added,
turning to General Montgomery, who had beheld
this little scene between the youthful pair with
mingled emotions; of suspicion, as he marked the
passionate glances, dangerous smile, and soothing
words of the young man; of pity, while he surveyed
the lovely form of the confiding girl, as, true
to her sex, in total recklessness of all else but her
woman's love, she threw herself upon his bosom.
“Sir, I will accept your generous offer of protection,
and intrude upon the kindness of your friend
until Heaven sends me better fortunes.”

“Then, my sweet child,” he said, in his usual
amiable and cordial manner, “you are from this
moment my daughter. Wilt yield me a daughter's
obedience?”

“Willingly, my kind parent,” she replied, ingenuously
extending her hand. “But you will promise
I shall soon see my brother?” she asked, with a
faint return of her usual archness, glancing as she
spoke towards the young soldier.

“That I promise. Now, my child, you are
fatigued. This is a somewhat rude couch for thy
tender limbs to press, but sound sleep will make
that shaggy bearskin a pillow of down. For this
night I resign my tent to you. As for you, young
sir, I shall be honoured by your company while I
visit the chain of sentinels. Horton,” he said, as
he passed the sentinel, who was walking backward
and forward before the tent, the barrel of his musket
gleaming in the moonlight, “see that you admit
no one into my tent during my absence, and that
you do not enter yourself, under any circumstances.”

The two gentlemen walked some distance through

the camp in silence. After a few minutes' progress
they came to an open area beyond the crowd of
tents, when the chief, with a grave manner and in
an impressive tone, said,

“This romance of yours, young gentleman, if I
may judge from the scene I have just beheld, is
likely to be rather serious, if it has not been so
already. Pardon me, but young men are easily
led astray, let honour call them back never so
loudly. This lovely child—for I have seldom
before seen so much beauty united with so much
childlike innocence—addressed you once as brother.
Am I to understand that such was the relationship
you assumed in your wild journey, on which both
Mars and Venus appear to have smiled?”

“It was, General Montgomery,” he replied, in a
tone of impatience.

“Forgive me, my dear friend, if I ask if the
relationship was sacredly regarded by you?”

“Upon my honour, yes! saving that love has
been busy with both our hearts, she is and has
been only my sister.”

His reply was delivered in a firm and frank
voice, and with such natural warmth of feeling and
honest sincerity that his companion's suspicions
were at once removed.

“'Tis a great escape. I did not think your
youth proof against such odds as you have so
happily encountered. Well, if there be true love
here, true love was never marred by an Irishman.
After the wars, my brave youth, we will take our
laurels to my farm at Rhinebeck, I to share them
with my lady-love, maugre that Hymen hath bound
us some half dozen years or so, and you to cast
them at the feet of the lovely Eugenie. So now
let us for a while dismiss the ladies, and take a
sterner theme. 'Twas the ancient Goths, was it

not, who forbade their young men to marry until
they were twenty-one or had signalized themselves
in battle? But we will be neither Goths nor Vandals
with you. You lack at the very least two years of
that hymeneal age; yet fight by my side in the
next battle, which will win or lose for us this fair
province, and then all the graces aid you in your
suit at love's court!”

The two officers, after going the rounds of the
silent and well-guarded camp, within which a
thousand men were buried in as deep sleep as if
their heads lay beneath their own roofs, returned to
the tent they had left.

“I hear the breathing of our lovely guest within,
soft as that of an infant,” said the general. “It is
thus innocence only sleeps. Morning approaches,
my young cavalier, and you may keep watch and
ward, as becomes a new-made knight, beside this
temple; but enter it not, on thy knightly honour.
Or if, as I am inclined to think, sleep be more
welcome to a traveller than watching a maiden's
pillow, you will find within this adjoining tent furs
to form a couch. I will lie down in Horton's
quarters, for in two hours we must be on our
march.”

He threw himself upon the floor of the privates'
tent, beside half a dozen soldiers heavily sleeping,
with their muskets stacked in the centre, and was
soon asleep. The lover, protecting his person
from the snow by an ample fur robe which the general
had thrown to him, also laid down, but not
to sleep. By one of those accidents which strangely
favour lovers, his buffalo's hide had been placed
just without the canvass curtain forming the tent,
and so near it that, as he placed his head close to
the envious division, he could distinctly hear the
gentle suspirations of the sleeper within. Reclining

on his arm, with his face turned towards the
tent, he lay wrapped in a dreamy enchantment, his
ear receiving the soft modulations of her breathing,
till, at length, sleep stole upon his senses. He did
not awake until roused by the sudden roll of drums
and the piercing cry of fifes, as the drummers beat
the cheerful reveille to stir the soldiers from their
short repose, preparatory to resuming with the coming
dawn their rapid march.

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.

15. CHAPTER XV.
THE COUNCIL.

On the evening of the thirteenth of December,
the combined divisions of the invading army under
General Montgomery, amounting, with the addition
of a few Canadians who had joined the American
standard, to about twelve hundred effective men,
had been encamped several days before Quebec.
Although they had immediately laid siege to it and
erected a battery against its walls, they had not
yet obtained any important successes. For several
days they had endured the excessive hardships to
which the rigour of a Canadian winter peculiarly
exposed them, yet continued to labour in erecting
works and completing the preparations for a vigorous
siege with unabated courage and unshaken
determination.

Nevertheless, General Montgomery feared they

would sink under their fatigue, however great their
fortitude and capability of endurance. He was also
apprehensive that he might soon be abandoned by
the majority of his soldiers, whose term of enlistment
had expired at Montreal, and whom admiration
for his courage, and a certain pride they felt in
following a brave and successful leader, united with
his own powers of persuasion, had induced to volunteer
their aid in the capture of Quebec. Impressed,
therefore, with the importance of taking an
immediate and decisive step before circumstances
should deprive him of the liberty of acting, he came
to the gallant resolution to make an immediate assault
upon the place with his whole force, “And,”
he said, his eyes kindling as he spoke of his determination
to his young aiddecamp, “lead them in
person to victory or death. But,” he added, more
desponding, taking the arm of his young friend, as
they were walking together before the walls, selecting
a point of attack, “my hardy little army is
composed of such discordant materials, that individual
exertions can accomplish but very little. I
hold my men by no legal authority; and, if they see
fit, they can leave me if I venture to suggest a
proposition which must ensue in much bloodshed.
But the only alternative left us is to raise the siege,
and retreat the best way we can.”

“I trust that alternative will never for a moment
be entertained by a single man in our camp,” said
the aid, impetuously.

“They will not think of it, my dear major, I am
assured. They are brave and patriotic, and, I believe,
also too much attached to my person to desert
me. But I did not come before the walls of Quebec
to retreat from them. I will either succeed in
the enterprise I contemplate, or leave my body before
its gates. I will forthwith summon a council

of my officers and consult with them, and afterward
address the troops. From them I anticipate
less opposition than from their commanding officers.”

“It were better to die like soldiers,” said Burton,
with animation, “than be picked from the walls
like wild beasts, as our men daily are, or have our
bodies paralyzed by frost and our spirits broken by
this fruitless and idle siege. How have you decided
to make the attack?”

“Assault both the Upper and Lower Towns at
the same time. I will detail my plan more fully in
council. I dare not think how my proposition will
be received there. In you, Burton, I shall have at
least one faithful coadjutor?”

“I will second you with my life!” answered the
young officer, promptly.

“Not thy life, my gallant youth,” said the general,
smiling and turning from him to enter his tent;
“not thy life, but thy voice only I require to aid
me in the council I shall presently invite to discuss
this matter. Alas,” he added, with a melancholy
expression, “life will soon enough be poured out!
God spare the youthful and brave for our country!”

Burton passed slowly on towards his own tent,
impressed with the sad look with which his general
uttered the last words, which seemed to convey
an omen of coming evil, when his attention
was arrested by the figure of a man, indistinctly
seen through the twilight, gliding along by the foot
of a low wall bounding the field. His eye followed
him till he saw him disappear in the moat and
shortly after reappear on the opposite side at the
foot of a bastion, and with rapid strides approach
the city gate. At this point there was no sentinel
posted; and Burton, struck with mingled curiosity
and suspicion, by changing his route and quickening

his pace, crossed the moat higher up and intercepted
him. He was a tall, stoutly-framed man,
wrapped to the eyes in a short Scottish plaid; but
the skirt of a gray capote and moccasins visible
beneath, and the addition of a fur bonnet, betrayed
the wearer to be a Canadian peasant. He carried
no arms, nor did he assume a hostile attitude. He
took long strides across the level ground, and his
object seemed to be to gain the American camp by
the most direct course, and with the best speed he
could exert.

“Stand, sir!” said Burton; grasping a pistol as
he confronted him.

The stranger started back a pace, as if he had
now for the first time observed him, and then said, in
a rough, bold voice.

“Be not too hasty with thy pistolet, good sir.
I am a true man, and as piously-disposed a rebel
as the devil himself.”

“How now, villain? what means this insolence?”
demanded the young soldier, sternly, at the same
time levelling his pistol at the man's breast.

“An hour ago I was a volunteer under Carleton,”
said the man, less rudely, “but I have taken
a leap over the wall, and now, by my beard! seek
to become an honest rebel.”

“A deserter from the citadel?”

“Ay, master, and was on my way to your camp
when you came across my path without any other
hint than the click of that pistolet in my ear.”

“And thank your stars 'twas not accompanied
with a bullet through your body. Till you satisfy
General Montgomery that you are what you affirm,
I shall detain you prisoner. Pass on before me to
the lines, and, as you value your life, make no attempt
to escape.”

Preceded by his prisoner, Burton advanced to

the camp, and there delivering him to the guard,
with orders to conduct him immediately to the
quarters of General Montgomery, he sought his
own quarters.

About eight o'clock the same evening, the commander-in-chief
was seated alone in his tent before
a rude table covered with letters, maps, and a plan
of the fortifications of Quebec, the last of which he
was inspecting with great attention. A single candle
cast a dim light through the tent, which contained,
besides the table, several camp-stools, and
half a dozen buffalo hides thrown loosely on the
ground to protect the feet from the snow. He had
just laid aside his mathematical instruments, and,
with his forehead resting upon his hand, given
himself up to deep thought, when his servant, lifting
the curtain, announced Captain M`Pherson, who
immediately entered.

This officer was a tall, gentlemanly-looking man,
with a fine military air, a calm, fearless eye of the
most transparent blue, a Saxon complexion, and a
frank and extremely pleasing mode of address.

“Be seated, captain,” said the general, rising and
courteously bowing; “I have called you from your
arduous duties in the field to ask your advice respecting
a plan I have in contemplation for bringing
this dull siege to a close. What say you to risking
an assault?”

“An assault, General Montgomery?” repeated
the officer, his clear eyes dilating with pleasure,
and rising and speaking with enthusiasm; “is such
indeed your intention?”

“It is, even if I can get no more than a score of
brave men to follow me,” replied the chief, firmly.

“One of them shall be M`Pherson.”

“I knew it, captain. I felt sure of you. If all
my officers carried your ready spirit in their hands,

our success would be certain. I was confident
that my proposition would meet your views.”

“Exactly, general. I am tired thrashing my
arms against my ribs to keep the blood in circulation.
I would much prefer exercising them on the
enemy, who have a legitimate title to keep my
fingers warm. When do you make the assault?”

“To-morrow morning, at five o'clock.”

“To-morrow morning! better still. To-morrow
noon, then, we will dine in Quebec. I am told the
burghers keep good wines. Have you matured
your plan of attack?”

“Fully. I have—”

At this moment a second officer was announced,
by the name and title of Captain Cheesman. His
air and appearance were those of a country gentleman,
who had laid aside his hunting-whip to grasp
the sword. His eyes evinced coolness and decision
to be the prominent attributes of his character.
As he entered he saluted the gentlemen in a bluff,
hearty tone, and with a familiar nod, while a smile
of good-humour, which seemed to be quite at home
on his well-shaped lips, at once prepossessed the
beholder in his favour.

This gentleman heard with pleasure the plan of
the proposed assault, and assented to its expediency.
“But what says Colonel Arnold?” he asked.

The officer he named, accompanied by Burton
and several other officers, at this moment came in.
The appearance of Colonel Arnold was that of a
courtly soldier. His person was manly and well-formed,
but slightly inclined to portliness. In his
attire, which was, nevertheless, exceedingly rich, he
was careless, like one who felt the duties of the field
to be both his pride and apology. A large and costly
brilliant sparkled on his little finger, and his hair

was profusely powdered in the fashion of the day.
His address was easy, and oftentimes bland to fawning.
His mouth habitually wore a smile which invited
confidence, while the restless expression of his
eyes betokened active suspicion. His features were
handsome, and his voice agreeable; yet there lurked
at all times, in every look and under every word he
uttered, a hidden meaning, which gave to his countenance,
however externally agreeable, a wily and
forbidding cast, prepossessing unfavourably all men
of sagacity and acute perception of character.

With a cold eye and a smile about his mouth
he acknowledged the salutations of General Montgomery
and the gentlemen present, and, seating
himself near the former, yet a little aloof from those
around him, as if wishing to observe without being
observed, he silently watched the faces and feelings
of all present.

“Gentlemen,” said General Montgomery, after
the council of officers was seated around the table,
rising and speaking with great dignity, “I have
invited you to my tent to consult with you on the
expediency of adopting more decisive measures
than we have done, and such as will ensure a successful
termination to this prolonged siege. Our
object is the capture of Quebec, and to accomplish
this we must be ready to sacrifice life, but not
honour. Permit me to urge, that the present mode
of conducting the siege is not such as becomes
men whose arms have hitherto been victorious,
and to whom honour should, therefore, be more
peculiarly dear. The bold attitude we have assumed
before this city has drawn all eyes upon
our little army. High expectations, founded, I
trust not unadvisedly, on the gallantry you have
already shown, are entertained throughout America
of the successful result of this expedition, and God

forbid that deficiency in energies, or any want of
promptness in action, should disappoint these hopes.
The territory of Canada, even to the gates of Quebec,
is already ours. This post in our hands, and
the arms of the northern army will be crowned
with the most brilliant successes that have marked
the present age. Great Britain, weakened by the
loss, will more willingly listen to our remonstrances,
and extend to us that justice for which we are now
in arms against her; we ourselves, proportionably
strengthened by the addition, will be able to contend
with her arms more equally, and, in case it
should ultimately come to this, cast off our allegiance
and assert our independence in a more imposing
manner.

“I admit, gentlemen, that the garrison, through
the vigilance of Governor Carleton, is already increased
to fifteen hundred men, and that we have
but three fourths of that number to encounter this
force. But unwavering courage, firmness, and
entire confidence in the justice, I might say sacredness,
of the cause in which we are enlisted, will
assuredly balance this inequality of numbers. I
am now about to suggest a plan to you, gentlemen,
which not only will terminate this inactive and
tedious siege, but, I confidently assure you, place
us in possession of the city. That your cheerful
and ready assent will be obtained to the meditated
measure, I have no doubt. The enemy, encouraged
by our apathy, have become, as I have learned
from a deserter who came to-night into camp, careless
and secure. Anticipating, from our mode of
operations, a protracted siege, they will be, in a
measure, unprepared for any important and sudden
change in our tactics. It is, therefore, my determination,
gentlemen,” added he, slowly and decidedly,
while his eye moved deliberately from face

to face around the circle, “it is my determination
to risk an assault.”

“It is madness to think of it!” exclaimed Colonel
Arnold, who had listened with no little impatience
to this harangue, starting to his feet on hearing
the last word; “there cannot be eight hundred
effective men led against the walls, and not one
third of these without their free consent. They
are, moreover, dispirited by the strength of a post
which they expected to find entirely defenceless.
There are not one hundred pairs of shoes in the
whole army.”

“So much the better, colonel,” observed Captain
M`Pherson, dryly; “the men can climb the walls
with greater facility, as doubtless thou hast heard
orangoutangs do ascend trees.”

A dark frown was the only reply to this observation;
and, avoiding the cool eye of the captain,
Colonel Arnold continued,

“But I can advise, perhaps, no better plan,
General Montgomery, than this you have proposed.
If you will find men in sufficient force to redeem
this enterprise from anything like a Quixotic complexion,
I will lead them. How have you arranged
the plan of attack?”

“It is here.”

As he spoke, General Montgomery unrolled and
spread on the table before him a chart covered with
lines of fortifications.

“My plan,” he added, after the other officers
had inspected the map and its accompanying explanations,
“is to attack both the Upper and Lower
Towns simultaneously; one of the detachments to
be led by you, the other by myself.”

“There are obstacles to the success of this plan,
so far as it regards the attack on the Lower Town,”
said an officer attached to Colonel Arnold's division,

a stout fat man, with a red face and the convivial
air of a bon-vivant; “the path is difficult; the
ice is piled many feet in height upon it in some
places, and we have no guide. The last would be
an insurmountable objection in itself.”

“Ha, Major Brown!” said Montgomery, quickly,
“I was not prepared for this dissent from so
gallant a soldier.”

“Nor would I dissent, general, if I were in your
division,” he said, aside, so as to be heard only by
his superior officer; “I have very little confidence
in my leader.”

“In Colonel Arnold?”

“Devil a bit. Transfer me to your detachment
during the assault, and I will fight so long as my
sword-hilt and hand are friends.”

“It cannot be, my dear major. Do your duty,
and I will trust your colonel to do his.”

“He may be trusted a little too far yet,” said
the officer, turning carelessly away to reply to
Colonel Arnold, who abruptly inquired, as if he
sought to interrupt their conversation,

“How many volunteers can you muster in your
own command, Major Brown?”

“Some one hundred and eighty, colonel; and not
a man will say no, if I say go.”

“And you will say `go,' I presume, major?” asked
General Montgomery, looking at him earnestly.

“Ay will I,” he answered, striking his hand
forcibly upon the table, as if to enforce his resolution.

“I trust, also, gentlemen,” continued the commander-in-chief,
addressing with animation several
officers around him, slightly bowing as he called
each by name, “Colonel Campbell, Major Livingston,
Captain Edwards, Major Mills, and you, Captains

Dearborn and Germaine, that I have your
assent?”

“You ha' mine, general,” said Colonel Campbell,
a plain-looking Scotchman, with harsh features,
but which were deficient in energy of expression,
who articulated every word with a broad national
accent; “but I relee for our success mair
on your courage, gude fortune, an' the fears o' the
garrison, wha'll na anteecepate an assault, than on
the aaction and eenergy of our deesperited troops.
How early 'll ye mak' the attack?”

“At five o'clock.”

“I regret, General Montgomery,” observed, in a
slow, formal tone of voice and manner, a slender,
dark-complexioned gentleman, with a high forehead
and an oval face, who wore a military undress,
over which was thrown a Spanish mantle, studiously
arranged about his person in graceful folds,
and who had been once or twice addressed as
Major Livingston, “that I am under the necessity
of opposing this desperate enterprise, proposed by
you at a period when our soldiers are in a situation
of deprivation and suffering that would fill with
despair a mind less energetic or,” he continued,
bowing with grave politeness, “a spirit less brave
than your own. I fear your sanguine hopes and
our desperate situation urge you to a step which
reason, and a sedate, unbiased judgment would,
at another time, present to you in a very different
light than you are now inclined to behold it.”

“Major Livingston's opinions are doubtless of
weight, and entitled to deliberate consideration,”
said Captain Morgan, commander of a rifle corps,
a man in whose face was written intrepidity and
decision, “and shall be duly weighed and discussed
by the sober judgment of our senses after the assault.
I agree with you, general, heart and hand,

not only in the expediency, but the absolute necessity,
of taking the step you have proposed. It is
useless to sum up the arguments in its favour.
Their name is Legion. There is one, and an important
one, which will be an argumentum ad
hominem to each soldier, and act as a spur in inducing
those whose term of service is expired to
volunteer cheerfully. It is this: if we capture the
city after a long and close siege, which we are not
so sure of by capitulation, not a soldier can touch
a stiver, not an old dame's knitting-needle, as his
share of the enemy's possessions. We must march
in as soberly as we would go to church. But if
we carry the town by assault, our men will profit
by the rights of war in such cases conferred on the
captors of a fortified town when taken by storm.”

“These arguments,” observed Major Livingston,
sarcastically, “become a Janissary rather than an
American officer.”

“Far be it from me, gentlemen, to add to the
horrors of war unnecessarily,” replied Captain
Morgan, colouring with rising anger; “but, as I
have observed, this is the lever which will move
the troops, and one which, from the days of Julius
Cæsar, has never been applied in vain.”

“I believe,” said General Montgomery, rising,
“that, with but one exception,” glancing towards
Major Livingston as he spoke, “you are, gentlemen,
unanimous in the opinion I have advanced
as to the expediency of taking immediate and more
decisive measures to bring this siege to a close.
I feel flattered by this expression of your sentiments.
From the first I felt confident I should not
be alone in this enterprise. If Major Livingston
will have the kindness to honour me with a few
moments' conversation after the council breaks up,
I think I shall be able to win him by arguments

as potent, at least, as those my friend, Captain
Morgan, proposed levelling at the troops.”

The gentleman addressed nodded a grave assent,
and the general continued:

“I will now proceed, gentlemen, to detail my
plan of attack, and arrange with you the best mode
of carrying it into successful operation.”

While the council was engaged in discussing
the important business laid before it, the sentinel
announced a guard with a prisoner, taken near the
walls, who called himself a deserter from the city.

“Admit them,” said General Montgomery, turning
and advancing towards the door with expectation.

Two riflemen entered, guarding a youth dressed
in the picturesque costume of the Canadian peasantry;
then withdrawing to the foot of the tent,
they left him standing alone in the midst of the
council.

“Are you a deserter or prisoner, young sir?”
sternly demanded General Montgomery, remarking
with surprise his youthful appearance.

“I am prisoner now,” answered the youth, pertly;
“ten minutes ago I was a deserter.”

“Have you deserted from the garrison?”

“I was not in the garrison. I like my freedom
too well to be mewed up there, like so many sheep
waiting to have their throats cut.”

“I'faith, Carleton must be hard run to man his
bastions with such pigmies as this imp,” said Captain
Morgan, whose large size authorized a comparison
of this kind.

“Thou art an old boar,” retorted the lad, turning
upon him sharply, “and fitter to fill a ditch with
that huge carcass of thine than line wall or bastion.”

“There you have it, Morgan,” said General

Montgomery, laughing; “if Carleton's swords are
as sharp as his tongue, we shall have warm work.”

“And if thy officers' blades,” spoke the lad, casting
a significant glance towards Captain Morgan,
“ring not with better metal than their speech,
there will be little blood shed in this siege.”

“A truce to this saucy speech, malapert,” said
General Montgomery, peremptorily, “and see if
your tongue promise to be useful as well as sharp.
When did you leave the citadel?”

“Within the hour.”

“By what means?”

“Letting myself down the walls after dark.”

“What induced you to take this step and desert
your colours?”

“They were no colours of mine. I chose to
fight on the side where I had friends.”

“Can you give me, my lad, any important information
of General Carleton's operations?”

“That can I. 'Twas for this alone I leaped the
wall and hastened to this rebel camp. It was
noised about by a deserter they let in after dark,
that General Montgomery was to attack both the
Upper and Lower Towns at the same hour, and
that Governor Carleton was making preparations to
receive it.”

“Ha, say you so, youngster?” exclaimed General
Montgomery, while the other officers manifested
great surprise.

“Trifle not with us,” said Colonel Arnold, grasping
the boy's wrist till the blood turned black beneath
his finger nails, “or your young neck shall
answer for it!”

“Release the lad, colonel,” said Captain Germaine,
a tall, pale, and courtly officer about forty
years of age, who had not spoken in the council;
“how can he trifle, not having know our plans?”

“It puzzles me how in the devil it could leak
out,” observed Major Brown.

“I have mentioned it, except before you, gentlemen,”
said General Montgomery, “to no one but
my aiddecamp, Major Burton.”

“And I think I can explain how the secret has
transpired,” said Burton. “When I parted from
you at the tent door this evening, general, I espied
a Canadian, as by his dress he appeared to be,
skulking along the lines, and moving in such a
direction from me that I now feel confident he
must have overheard, from behind the furze and
stone walls which bordered our path, the conversation
we had together in relation to the assault and
summoning of this council. I succeeded in arresting
him, and he is the man whom I sent to you
under guard shortly after. He probably was a
spy, and has perhaps escaped again into the city.”

“It must be so. He told me so fair a tale, and
played the rebel so well with his tongue, that,
after drawing all the information from him that
would be of use to me, and accepting his offer of
services as a guide to the Lower Town, I dismissed
him to the ranks; cautioning the men who guarded
him hither, however, to keep an eye on his movements.
Wilson,” he said, addressing one of the
guards present, “go to Lieutenant Boyd's quarters,
and learn if that Canadian deserter calling himself
Luc Giles is to be found.”

“Didst see the deserter, boy?” inquired Captain
Dearborn.

“I did, and know him to be an arrant rogue.”

“Is his name Luc Giles?” demanded General
Montgomery of the lad.

“As true as Old Nick be named Satan. I ne'er
knew the hour both had not their heads and hands
full o' mischief.”

“It is clear enough, Major Burton,” said the
commander-in-chief. “This intelligence, gentlemen,
threatens to interfere with our arrangements.”

“But not with our ultimate plan, general,” said
Burton, promptly.

“How so, then?”

“The enemy, depending on the information they
have received through their spy, are expecting us
to attack both towns simultaneously, and will divide
their forces, to be the better able to repel both.
Therefore we should make one real attack with
the best part of our force upon the Lower Town
while they are thus weakened, and, with a smaller
detachment, make a feint on the Upper, to keep the
troops stationed there in play, and prevent their
coming to the relief of the quarter where we make
the assault.”

“It is well conceived,” exclaimed General Montgomery,
warmly grasping the hand of his aid; “in
addition, I propose that we divide our army into
four parts, one of which, consisting of the Canadian
volunteers, shall be commanded by my friend, Major
Livingston,” here he bowed courteously to that
gentleman, who, after a moment's hesitation, nodded
compliance; “the other I shall give to Major
Brown,” he continued, looking also towards that officer,
who acknowledged his gratification at the appointment
by a smile and striking his hand against
his sword-hilt; “these two divisions shall distract
the garrison by making two feints simultaneously
against the Upper Town at St. John's and Cape
Diamond. The third division, led on by Colonel
Arnold, and the fourth and remaining one, consisting
of my New-York troops, and commanded by
myself in person, shall make two real attacks on
opposite sides of the Lower Town. Does this plan
seem to be feasible to you, gentlemen, and meet
with your approbation?”

“May I inquire your object in selecting the
Lower Town?” asked Captain Germaine.

“All the commercial interests and a great portion
of the wealth of Quebec is in this quarter. If
it is once in our power, the citizens, to preserve
their possessions, will compel Governor Carleton
to capitulate.”

“I believe I shall stand alone in any opposition
I may make to General Montgomery's proposition,”
said Burton, looking round and observing the unanimous
approval of the council. “My objections do
not affect the mode of attack, which is admirable,
and worthy the military genius of its author; but,
I am decidedly opposed to General Montgomery's
leading in person a forlorn hope, for such, undeniably,
is each detachment destined for this assault.
It is not his place; and, if he falls, it will be a death-blow
to our hopes.”

“The fate of the day will not depend on one division
nor on one leader,” said Colonel Arnold, sneeringly.

“Neither victory nor defeat will depend on me
or my personal command, as you remark, Colonel
Arnold,” said General Montgomery, with dignity;
“if I fall, there will be others equally able to fill
my place. I thank you, my young friend,” he
added, turning to Burton; “but Richard Montgomery
must not lag behind while his brave men
are in the van. I give myself to this enterprise,
and live or die with it.”

It was at length decided that the attack should
be made between four and five o'clock the ensuing
morning. The council then broke up. The result
of its deliberations will show how the wisest
and most judicious plans are controlled by circumstances
which lie beyond the reach of human fore-sight.

As the officers were departing to hasten to their
several posts to prepare for the assault, Burton felt
his sleeve pulled, and, turning, saw at his side the
deserter, in whom, on his entrance into the tent, he
had recognised his old acquaintance and guide,
Zacharie Nicolet.

“'Tis you, then, Sir Monk that was,” he said, in
a low, sharp whisper; “I thought, when I came in,
I knew the blink of that dark eye, though it is not
now flashing from beneath a priest's cowl.”

“And your tongue betrayed you as readily, Zacharie.
But how came you engaged in the wars?”

“By the pope's toe! didst thou not promise, or
I did for thee, that I should be a soldier? One
o' Carleton's companies that volunteered in our
neighbourhood was marching to Quebec, and so
I joined it. But, after we got into the city, I
found thou wert not fighting on that side, and so I
took a leap over the wall, and here I am, ready to
fight or run away, just as suits thy humour. But
how i' the name o' all the saints came you to let
that Luc Giles come to camp and return to garrison
with his thick head full o' treachery. You keep
poor guard here, even if two long-legged loons did
make out to grab me,” he added, glancing at his
captors, who were both present, the one who had
been sent to find the deserter having returned and
already reported that he had disappeared from the
camp; “but I stumbled over them in the dark,
while they were snoring like a pair o' turtles, or
they would have been none the wiser.”

“You lie, you carroty-headed imp,” cried one of
the soldiers, indignantly.

“Silence, sir!” interposed General Montgomery.
“I suppose, Major Burton, that I am to look upon
this wild slip as one of your friends, come to camp
to learn the art of war under your auspices. You

are, doubtless, the friend in camp he spoke of. But
methinks, boy, you had best be learning the art of
spelling at school. It would better suit your years.”

“It's hard to tell a chicken's age by its teeth, as
Father Bon would say. If I had been at school
this night, thou wouldst have known less now than
thou dost, and been less wise in the morning.”

“You say truly, boy. From this time you are
attached to Major Burton, if he chooses to receive
such an adjunct.”

“Willingly, general. He has done me good service
already, and may be useful again. Perhaps
he may be serviceable as a guide into the city.”

“That may I. There is not a foot of ground
within the walls but I have crossed it, nor path
nor road to or from the city I have not put foot in.”

“I could have sworn it,” said Burton. “But
keep your restless spirit quiet a while, and do not
leave me. Your services as guide may be more
useful than those of your friend Luc Giles. Guard,
I will relieve you of your prisoner.”

“Ay, go finish thy nap,” said Zacharie, as they
were passing by him to leave the tent, both casting
on him no very amiable looks, “and keep a sharp
look-out when next you sleep, or, by the pope's toe!
you may catch a Tartar.”

Thus speaking, Zacharie followed his patron to
his tent, and was regularly installed as his confidential
esquire.

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE ASSAULT.

The morning of the thirty-first of December,
seventeen hundred and seventy-five, was ushered
in with a tempest of snow, highly favourable to the
storming parties, which, in four divisions, moved
steadily and silently to the assault. The troops,
on being drawn up at break of day and informed
of the projected attack, were unanimous in desiring
to be immediately led on; and General Montgomery,
taking advantage of their high spirits, gave
the signal for advancing nearly half an hour earlier
than he had previously intended.

Placing himself with his aids at the head of his
brave New-York troops, he marched along the St.
Lawrence, by the way of Aunce de Mere, under
Cape Diamond, and in the direction of a barrier
which he knew to be defended by a few pieces of
artillery mounted on a bastion, in advance of which,
about two hundred yards, stood a blockhouse protected
by a picket. This, from his own observation
and the information of Burton, he considered
the most advantageous point of attack, and therefore
led, in person, the best part of his force against it.

His route lay round the base of the precipitous
cliff upon which the citadel was built, and along a
narrow path or beach between the face of the rock
and the river, which flowed so near it as to leave
passage only for a single column of three, and often
but two men abreast. To add to the difficulties of
the march of this adventurous party, enormous

masses of ice, as rugged and massive as if they
were fragments torn from the cliffs above their
heads, were piled in wild confusion upon each other
in their path, their perpendicular sides presenting
almost impassable barriers to their farther progress.
But with an indomitable spirit of perseverance, and
a firmness of purpose that characterized the American
soldiers throughout the revolutionary war, they
surmounted obstacles that appeared to defy human
energies. Now clambering over precipices, now
sliding down inclined planes of ice, and now creeping
under overhanging rocks, they continued to
press forward until they came suddenly upon the
picket protecting the blockhouse, which was indistinctly
seen through the falling snow a few yards
in its rear.

“Here, my fine fellows,” said Montgomery, who,
during their march, was at one moment in the
rear, encouraging the slow to persevere, at another
in the van, animating them all by his example,
“here is the way to victory. Pass this picket
and yonder blockhouse, and the battery is ours.
Here, my man! I will take that axe. Look to the
condition of your musket;” and, taking an axe
from a Herculean soldier who was about to assail
the palisades, with a strong arm and heavy blows
he cut a passage for his men through the picket.
The sound of his axe was the first intimation the
defenders of the blockhouse received of the presence
of the storming-party; and, giving a scattering
and harmless fire, they threw their arms over
the breastwork, and with loud cries of “The enemy!
the enemy!” fled in dismay and confusion for
protection under the guns of the battery.

“The day is ours! On, my brave soldiers, on!”
shouted the gallant Montgomery.

Waving his sword, he leaped through the breach

he had made, which was now much enlarged by the
labour of several soldiers and the active co-operation
of Burton, who, unless when sent to the rear
on duty, had constantly marched by his side, sharing
and relieving him of many of his most arduous duties,
and now, simultaneously with him, bounded
over the picket.

“What, not twenty men by my side?” exclaimed
Montgomery, in a voice of intense mortification, on
looking back and finding but a few had yet gained
the picket, while, as far as he could see through the
thick atmosphere of snow, he beheld the remainder,
in a lengthened line, slowly but perseveringly, in
files and pairs, toiling towards the point of attack.

“Halt, my men,” he said, in despair, to the few
around him. “Haste, Major Burton, haste, and
urge them forward! 'Twere madness to storm
with this handful. Forward, my brave fellows,
forward! Never mind your musket, my good fellow!
Seize a picket,” he cried to a soldier who
had dropped his gun in the snow, and was stooping
for it; “cool heads and brave hearts are all we
want. Oh God! that the day should be lost now,
when victory is in our very grasp. Forward, run!
On, soldiers, on!” he shouted. “Nobly, nobly
done, Major Burton. Forward, men! you follow
a brave young leader. Ha, Horsford, are you
there?” he exclaimed, seeing his sergeant join him
with a score of men at his back; “now charge all
of ye in the name of God and our country!” and,
waving his sword, he placed himself at the head of
about two hundred men, whom his voice had gathered
around him, and advanced boldly to force the
barrier.

“We are not too late, Major Burton,” he said to
the young officer who was by his side, while his
eye kindled as he glanced round upon the brave

band which he led against the bastion; “I would
not exchange this day's laurels for imperial Cæsar's.
Press forward, ladders! Another moment, my
brave men, and our standard shall float on that bastion,”
pointing forward with his sword as he spoke,
and almost running towards the wall. “Nobly
done, M`Pherson; gallant Cheesman, you are ever
foremost. Nay, Major Burton, not before me!”

He had scarcely uttered these words, when a
terrible glare illumined the battery, and the gallant
chief, arrested in the animated attitude in which he
was advancing, and with the battle-cry still lingering
on his lips, fell backward, with his face to the
citadel, and was caught in the arms of Burton.
“On, on!” he faintly shouted, as the hurricane of
death checked the rush of his troops; “heed me
not!”

Ere the smoke of the cannon, which for a moment
enveloped him like a pall, had rolled away,
he breathed out his gallant spirit, and died, as a
brave soldier should die, in his armour.

The spirits of the intrepid and chivalrous M`Pherson,
of the brave Cheesman, of the honest and resolute
Horsford, also accompanied that of their gallant
leader; in death united with one they so honoured
in life.

Burton, the only surviving aid of the brave and
unfortunate chief, gently laid his noble form on the
ground, and hastily wrapped it in his own cloak;
then, with a full heart, hastily dropping a tear to his
memory, he shouted, with a voice that rung like a
trumpet,

“Charge, men! Avenge your chief, or die with
him!”

The soldiers, whose onward career had been so
fatally checked, and who began to gather round
their fallen leader, not like men who fear to advance,

but like brave soldiers lamenting the fall of a gallant
general, inspired by the thrilling voice of the
young officer, sternly grasped their weapons, and
with a loud cry rallied around him. He himself
was already at the foot of the bastion, ascending
a scaling ladder which had been planted against
it by Zacharie, who, like his shadow, kept by his
side. At this moment Colonel Campbell, on whom
the command of the forlorn hope now devolved,
cried out,

“Halt! Major Burton! It is useless to pursue
an enterpreese that has terminated sae fatally.”

He ordered a retreat as he spoke, and the division
precipitately retired from before the battery, a
few brave fellows who reluctantly obeyed the disgraceful
order bearing the body of their chief in
their midst.

Burton, execrating the apathy of the man who
could thus desert an enterprise more than half
achieved, slowly descended to the ground and retreated
from the barrier, accompanied by his youthful
esquire, who, before removing the ladder, had
mounted to the highest round, from which he looked
over the parapet, and satisfied himself, as he afterward
asserted, that not a soul was in sight through
out the whole range of his vision.

“With my old dame,” he said, deliberately descending
and following his master, “and another
old woman, her match, I could capture that battery,
wheel the guns round, point them against the town,
and take it.”

Burton heard him not; his mind was agitated by
the death of his magnanimous friend and chief,
and the shameful retreat of his party.

As he walked thoughtfully along, the firing of
musketry in the direction of the Saut de Matelots
roused him to a recollection of the great object in

which he was embarked. Hoping that the other
division might accomplish what his own had failed
in achieving, he assembled several soldiers of his
detachment who had lingered behind, when they
saw he made no haste to retreat, and, followed by
them, advanced rapidly towards the barrier attacked
by Colonel Arnold, who was now, by the fall of
General Montgomery, commander of the forces.

The detachment led by Colonel Arnold had moved
forward at the signal for storming simultaneously
with the party commanded by the unfortunate
Montgomery. It pursued its march towards the
Saut de Matelots against a barrier constructed at
that point, and defended by a small battery hastily
thrown up, mounting two twelve-pounders. This
division consisted of a company of artillery, with
a single brass fieldpiece lashed on a sledge and
drawn by the soldiers; and in the rear, and behind
Morgan's company of riflemen, the main body,
composed of the Canadian volunteers and colonial
militia.

This party was also distressed in its march by
the difficulties it encountered at every step. The
path through which it advanced along the skirt
of St. Roques was rugged and narrow, and, by
leading directly into the face of the battery, was
exposed for a long distance to a raking fire from
the twelve-pounders, which commanded the whole
breadth of its column; while its right flank, when
its approach should be discovered, was open to a
galling fire of musketry from the walls and other
defences of the besieged.

Silently and swiftly, their march concealed by
the darkness of the morning, which was increased
by the thickly-falling snow, this intrepid band
moved to the assault with that steady courage
which an enterprise so dangerous and so important

called for at such a moment. One impulse
and one spirit seemed to invigorate them all.
The barrier was at length visible through the
dense atmosphere, and with a shout they rushed
forward to the attack. The besieged echoed the
cry with a loud note of alarm, and, flying to the
walls, poured a volley of musketry upon the flank
of the storming party, which, like a troop of spectres
rising from the earth, had so suddenly appeared
before them from the cloud of mist.

“Now, colonel, scale that barrier, and the city is
ours!” said a tall dark man in an antiquated uniform,
half French, half colonial, and with a foreign
air and accent, who had marched side by side with
the leader during the advance, occasionally pointing
out easier paths, as if familiar with the ground.

“Forward!” cried Colonel Arnold, looking back,
and anxious to save his flank from the distressing
fire on their right; “forward! and not loiter there,
to be shot down like beeves.”

The men, animated by the voice of the stranger,
and encouraged by their leader, pressed on. Colonel
Arnold was in the act of springing first upon
the barrier, when the besieged discharged a heavy
volley of musketry from the ramparts almost above
his head, which killed and wounded many of his
men, who dropped on every side. He himself uttered
a sharp cry of pain, and fell severely wounded
into the arms of his orderly sergeant.

“By the mass! my colonel, thou hast received
a soldier's welcome before thy foeman's gates,”
said the stranger.

“If it had been behind them 'twould have been
better welcome. Forward! Lead on the men,
sir,” he said, writhing with pain from his shattered
limb as he was borne bleeding from the field.

“To the barrier! to the barrier!” shouted the
stranger, rushing onward, followed by a few platoons
of artillerymen, who, animated by the spirit
of their new leader, deserted the useless fieldpiece,
and, drawing their swords, emulously strove to be
first at scaling the barricade.

“Storm it, my brave fellows!” shouted Morgan,
pressing forward at the head of his riflemen.

Clambering up the face of the battery, he was
aiding his ascent by clinging round one of the
twelve-pounders, when it was discharged by the
lighted wadding of a gun accidentally falling upon
and igniting the priming. Although heavily charged
with grape, it killed only a single man, who, recklessly
climbing across the muzzle at the instant,
was blown to atoms over the heads of his comrades
below.

The rampart was immediately carried, and the
battery, without the discharge of another gun, was
in another moment in the possession of the gallant
storming-party.

“Give quarter! Disarm and make prisoners,”
cried a loud voice, in a commanding tone, to the
soldiers, who, in the first excitement of success, began
to beat down all who opposed them. “Stain
not your victory with butchery;” and, at the same
instant, Burton leaped, sword in hand, from the gun
into the barrier.

“Ha, my gallant cavalier, art thou there?” cried
the stranger, who had mounted the battery with
Morgan, striking, while he spoke, the pistol from
the hands of the captain of the guard, and making
him prisoner. “Thou art rather late, but there is
something yet to do to keep thy young blood from
cooling.”

“Chevalier,” said the youth, hurriedly pressing

his hand, “I am glad to see you here. Brave men
are welcome at this hour, when so many brave leaders
bite the dust. Forward, and carry the second
barrier!”

“Bless me, sir,” said Morgan, as he caught sight
of Burton, “are you here, Major Burton? How
has Montgomery succeeded?”

“Lost, all lost!” he replied, in a low tone. “But,
thank God, he cannot feel our disgrace!”

“What, not—”

“Dead!”

“Dead! My God! there fled a brave spirit,”
said the captain, with deep feeling. “But what of
the division?”

“Retreated when a sudden charge would have
ensured our success. I see you have carried the
barricade, and the fortune of the day may yet be in
our hands.”

“I will draw up my troops in the street within
the defences, and instantly attack the second barrier.”

“Do so, and let activity and courage redeem the
fate of the other division.”

“Who in the devil, Major Burton, is this tall,
French-looking officer?” he inquired, as he was
leaving him. “You seem to know him. By the
sword of King Solomon, he fights as if he had served
a trade at it. He wields that two-handed claymore,
and lays on his blows with such right down good-will,
that one would swear he was fighting for the
love of it.”

“A brave old French soldier, whom you may depend
on as a faithful ally. See! your men have
taken more prisoners than they can manage,” added
Burton, pointing down into the street, where the
troops were disarming and taking into custody a
score of Canadian burghers, armed artificers, and

several English citizens. “Turn them loose outside
the barrier, or lock the most unmanageable of
them up in this stone house under a small guard.”

“I will lock them all up,” said Morgan, descending
into the street, followed by Burton and the chevalier.

The latter immediately called out in Canadian
French for the Canadian volunteers to rally around
him. He was soon at the head of twenty men,
whom he drew up near the barrier and awaited the
signal to rush forward. This, however, Morgan,
on whom the command now devolved, was not
prepared to give. The party which had carried
the barriers consisted only of his own body of
riflemen and the corps of artillery, and did not
amount in all to one hundred men. The main body
of his forces had not yet reached the battery. He
was under the necessity, therefore, of hastily forming
his little force on the street within the barricade;
and, perceiving that he could effect nothing without
additional support, in this embarrassing and critical
situation he was compelled to await the arrival of
re-enforcements.

The dawn had not fully appeared, and objects
around were rendered still more obscure by the
storm, which still raged violently. His native intrepidity,
nevertheless, might have carried him onward,
but, unfortunately, he was without the slightest
acquaintance with the situation of that part of
the city; without a guide in whom he could repose
confidence; totally ignorant of the streets through
which he was to lead his troops, and wholly unacquainted
with the nature and strength of the barriers
to be forced before he could penetrate to the
opposite extremity of the town.

“My dear major,” he cried, in despair, to Burton,
who shared his impatience, “for God's sake return

over the barrier and quicken the steps of those laggards,
or we shall lose the advantage we have
gained.”

Burton leaped the parapet, and fearlessly run the
gauntlet along the line of musketry, which, on his
approach, recommenced its firing from the walls.
Gaining the head of the main body, which was
approaching slowly but in good order, he infused
some of his own energy into the soldiers, whose
blood had not yet been stirred by actual contact
with the enemy. They shouted to be led on, and
several companies rushed forward with their officers;
but, breaking into fragments before they
gained the barrier, not more than a hundred intrepid
fellows scaled it, with Burton and Captain Germaine
at their head, and, with trifling loss, joined
the detachment drawn up on the inside under Morgan,
whose little party welcomed this addition to
its number with loud shouts.

This re-enforcement was rapidly imbodied with
Morgan's force; and the whole party, feeling confidence
in their numbers and elated by the success
already achieved, demanded to be led against the
second barrier.

“Do you know the distance to it?” inquired
Morgan of Burton, who again had taken his place
by his side.

“No; but it cannot be far.”

“'Tis not forty paces, for I paced it nimbly last
night ere I scaled the wall,” said Zacharie, who,
with a horsepistol in one hand and a dirk in the
other, walked behind his master.

“Art thou there, my young kite?” cried Captain
Morgan. “Then lead on, in the name of thy manhood;
for we are taught that great things may be
done by babes and sucklings.”

“If I lead the battle I'll wear the honours,” replied

the lad, who did not hear the last part of this
speech, or doubtless it would not have passed unnoticed.
“See, now, what a dust I will kick up.”

Fearlessly running forward as he spoke, he
stopped at the angle of the next street, about
twenty yards ahead of the attacking column, and
discharged his pistol towards an object concealed
from the view of the advancing party. He alertly
sprung aside as he fired, and had scarcely regained
the protection of the angle, when a shower of bullets,
following the discharge of a heavy volley of
musketry, whizzed harmlessly past him, at once
betraying the position and presence of the enemy,
and their readiness to repel an attack.

“Gallantly done, my brave boy,” exclaimed Morgan;
“thou hast spared us twenty lives.”

“Forward, men, before they reload,” shouted
Burton, as they gained the head of the pass, across
which the besieged had constructed a strong battery;
“plant your ladders firmly.”

“Give them a volley, and sweep the barrier,”
shouted Morgan.

Wheeling round the angle upon the run, the
storming party rushed against the barrier under a
tremendous and incessant fire from the battery in
their front, and applied their ladders to the works.
But the courage and reckless intrepidity of the besiegers
could not avail against superiority of numbers,
and the disadvantages of the position into
which the besieged had drawn them. The street
where they were crowded together, rather than
drawn up with military precision, was narrow, and,
besides the battery in front, was lined on both sides
with stone houses, from the windows of which they
were galled by a spirited discharge of firearms.

“Hola! my brave habitans,” cried the Chevalier
de Levi, seeing one after another of the besiegers

picked from the ladders, in attempting to carry the
barrier, by marksmen concealed in one of these
dwellings, “who will follow me to clear this house
of its heretical horde.”

Seizing a ladder as he spoke, he rushed forward
to the windows, and was instantly followed by a
dozen men also with ladders. They first discharged
their pieces at the inmates, but with trifling success,
as their exposure to the storm had unfitted nine in
ten of their firearms for use, and then gallantly
mounted at several windows. After a short contest,
they took possession of the building, from which,
as their numbers were increased, they poured, with
the few serviceable muskets they could command,
a well-directed fire upon the barrier.

The fire from the battery at length became so
incessant and fatal, that, finding it impossible to
force the barrier, in attempting which, at the head
of a few gallant soldiers, he had been repeatedly
beaten back, although fighting with the cool courage
of a veteran, Burton determined to throw himself
into the houses bordering the scene of contest,
both for protection from the fire of the besieged and
the violence of the storm, which bewildered the
troops and rendered their arms unserviceable.

The besiegers, now increased to four hundred
men by the re-enforcement of the main body, immediately
took possession of these defences, leaving
the narrow street covered with dead and
wounded, and in a few minutes the firing from the
battery ceased.

“Now, by the mass!” shouted the chevalier to
Burton who now had returned to the shelter of the
house of which he had first taken possession, “I will
strike one blow more for old Canada and old scores,
and charge the barrier while its defenders are refreshing.
If I carry it you will support me, and

Canada will be free. If I fail I can only be slain,
and fall like a warrior in my harness, which I desire
to do. If this enterprise does not succeed,” he
added, sadly, “I wish no longer to live.”

Elevating his voice, he cried, “Who will follow
me to victory or death? for here we are as surely
prisoners as if already in Carleton's dungeons. I
will strike once more for my country if it be my
last blow,” he said, enthusiastically; and, rushing
out, he was followed by a dozen men, both Canadians
and Americans, who had caught his enthusiasm.

This little band sallied with intrepidity from the
house towards the barrier. Before its defenders,
who supposed the besiegers had given up their attempt
to storm the works, could recover from their
surprise and repel them, they had planted and
mounted the ladders, and the chevalier, with two
men, already stood upon the top of the battery,
striking off, as he gained it, the arm of a soldier
about to apply a match to one of the guns.

Burton, beholding the result of this rash adventure,
which he had at first warned the chevalier it
was madness to attempt, leaped from the window
shouting for followers, and found himself in a moment
at the head of twenty men. In the midst of
a sharp fire, which, as the houses were now in the
possession of the besiegers, came only from the
front, and, therefore, was not so annoying as it had
been, and covered by a spirited discharge of musketry
from their own party, they rushed forward.

The besieged now assembled in force to the defence
of their post. With the loss of half his men,
Burton reached the ladders, by which he actively
mounted the battery, closely followed by Zacharie
and one or two soldiers, and gained the top of the
works in time to support the chevalier, who, covered

with wounds, with his back against the gun
he had captured, was defending his life against two
Canadians, one of whom, a stout dark peasant, was
attacking him with a short dagger and the butt of
a pistol. One of these Burton shot as he mounted
the barrier; but, before he could gain his feet
to second him with his sword, the chevalier received
a ball in his breast, and fell dead across the
cannon.

The peasant instantly turned upon Burton, and
had raised his dagger to bury it in his bosom, when
Zacharie, who was yet on his knees climbing over
the verge of the parapet, close to the back of his
leader, caught the Canadian by one of his feet as
he drew back to give the blow, and, with a violent
exertion of his strength, destroyed his equilibrium,
and pitched him, with great danger to himself, head-long
into the street among the bodies of his foes.

“Lie thou there, Luc Giles, where many a better
man hath made his bed before thee,” he quietly
said, as he looked after him. “Thou hast cheated
the gallows at last, for which thou mayst thank
Zacharie Nicolet.”

He had hardly performed this feat when he was
caught in the arms of a stout soldier and thrown
back within the barrier. Burton, who in vain
called on the soldiers below to mount and second
him, was in the act of leaping back into the street
again, when he was seized and disarmed by half a
score of burghers.

The force of the enemy now momently increased
on the barrier. A formidable detachment, composed
of burghers, artificers, peasants, and a few regulars,
despatched from the quarter originally attacked by
Montgomery, marched to the head of the defile or
street on the failure of this last attempt to scale
the barrier, and completely blockaded the besiegers

in the houses of which they had taken possession.

“Would that Montgomery had lived another
hour, or Campbell had pressed on,” said Captain
Germaine to an officer who lay wounded on the
floor of the house nearest the barrier.

“In that case,” said Morgan, with animation,
“they would have crossed the town and formed a
junction with us; but now, God knows, we have
no alternative but to collect our broken forces and
cut our way through that band of burghers who are
drawn up to intercept our retreat.”

This daring proposition, originating from a determined
spirit, was at first generally approved of by
the officers who had collected near him; but the
great increase of the enemy's forces, which rapidly
assembled and now surrounded them in great numbers,
plainly rendered its achievement altogether
impossible.

“Well, gentlemen,” observed Captain Morgan,
“I see our destinies are no longer in our own
hands. We must make what terms we can with
the enemy.”

It was at length decided that there was no other
alternative left than to surrender themselves prisoners
of war.

“When my poor Mary tied the knot of this cravat
the morning I left home,” said Morgan, with
a feeling which he attempted to disguise under a
careless tone, while he secured his white cravat
to his sword, “she never dreamed that it would be
waved from a window in token of a gallant army's
surrender. But such is the fate of soldiers!”

He advanced to the window with the necker-chief;
and, although the slight exposure of his person
was at first hailed with one or two single musket
shots, these were soon followed by a loud shout

when he extended his muffled sword, and waved
the white flag it bore in token of surrender.

Thus ended one of the boldest enterprises of
modern times, conceived by an active and intrepid
soldier, with a display of skill and judgment evincing
military talents of the highest rank. The
loss of the besieged was trifling when compared
with that of the Americans, which amounted in all
to four hundred men, sixty of whom, including three
officers, were slain, while the remainder, three hundred
and forty in number, surrendered themselves
prisoners of war. Several officers were wounded,
and the clothes of those who surrendered were perforated
with balls, and burned by the powder from
the muzzles of the enemy's guns; striking proofs
of the severity and obstinacy with which the assault
was maintained. But even the possession of the
city by this detachment without the loss of a single
man would have been a victory dearly purchased
by the fall of Montgomery. His death cast a
cloud of gloom over the American army, and was
universally deplored by his country, which has
expressed its gratitude for his services, and cherished
his memory by erecting a monument in commemoration
of its high sense of his virtues as a
man, a citizen, and a soldier.

17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE PRISONER.

It is not our province to detail the operations
of the campaign of the winter of seventeen hundred
and seventy-five, six, during the farther progress
of the fruitless siege of Quebec. The elegant historian
and biographer Marshall, and other writers,
have left the novelist no excuse for encroaching
on the empire of history: it is his province only
to make use of the materials they have furnished
him.

With the death of General Montgomery the soul
of the expedition departed, and the Canadians, who,
previous to this event, had encouraged the invasion
of their country by the colonial army, began to lose
confidence in the ability of the invaders to accomplish
what they had undertaken. A universal disposition
became manifest among them to withdraw
their countenance from the American cause, and
patiently endure the existing government, which,
save that it was that of conquerors, was exercised
with unparalleled forbearance and generosity towards
the conquered. Referring the reader, whose
curiosity may have been awakened by the perusal
of these pages, to the histories of the period and
the scenes which they relate, we will follow our
hero, whose adventures it is alone our purpose to
record, into the camp of the besieged.

Burton, on being seized and made prisoner as he
was about to leap from the ramparts which he had
so rashly but intrepidly mounted to support the

unfortunate chevalier, was led, or rather dragged,
to the rear by his captors, with that exultation which
the besieged might be expected to display on making
their first prisoner. Several of the Canadians
proposed that his life should be sacrificed on the
spot. Once he had nearly fallen a victim to their
resentment, a rude burgher having cocked and presented
a pistol to his head, when a British officer,
who had hastened to the spot on seeing a prisoner
evidently of rank, struck it from his hands, and
commanded them to release him. The captors reluctantly
resigned their prize, but were better reconciled
to the loss when, at length, the shouts of
their comrades beyond the barrier informed them
that the whole force of the besiegers had fallen into
their hands.

“You are an officer in this rebel army?” said
the officer, inquiringly.

“A volunteer, and an aiddecamp to the late General
Montgomery.”

“It is, then, true that Montgomery has fallen. I
heard such a rumour, and, indeed, judged so from
the precipitate retreat of his division. I regret that
it is my duty,” added the Englishman, with that
military courtesy which none know better how to
assume towards a prisoner than British officers,
“to send you to General Carleton. Your sword, I
perceive, has already fallen into the possession of
those inexperienced volunteers, who know not how
to use a victory with moderation. Ha! Saint
George!” he said, with animation, “those shouts
tell me that your party have surrendered. I will
attend you to the chateau, as I wish myself to be
the bearer of the news to Governor Carleton.”

On the arrival of the officer to communicate the
intelligence of the surrender, the governor was on
a balcony of the vice-regal chateau of Saint Louis,

which, supported by piers, projected over the precipice
and commanded a view of the Lower Town.

“I guessed it, Miltimore,” he exclaimed, as the
officer approached, rubbing his hands and pacing
the balcony; “the storm is too dense to see the
operations, but those hearty shouts I heard a while
since came only from British throats. How many
prisoners say you?”

“The whole attacking force has fallen into our
hands; it cannot be much less than five hundred
men.”

“Bravely done! I would have been in the fray
had I dared leave my post here. Their plan was
so well concerted, that from the Saint Lawrence
to the basin every part seemed equally threatened.
Had they come down on our heads, it would not
have increased my surprise. I wonder at the result
with such a leader as Montgomery.”

“Montgomery has fallen,” said the lieutenant.
“He fell mortally wounded at the first and only
discharge of artillery.”

“Fallen! Then has a brave man gone to his reward.
I need not now be surprised at our victory;
for, in spite of Harley the Earl of Oxford's impeachment
for attempting the same thing, I feared
for our Western Gibraltar. 'Tis strange that he
should have lost his life in attacking a citadel which
he himself, but a few years since, aided us in acquiring!”

The governor paced the piazza thoughtfully a
few moments, and then raising his eyes, as if to put
a question to his officer, they rested on the prisoner,
who stood within the window, guarded by two
soldiers.

“Ha! whom have we here?” he quickly asked,
fixing his dark and penetrating eyes upon him.

“A late aiddecamp of General Montgomery, who
was taken prisoner at the barrier.”

A slight exclamation from a room which opened
on the gallery drew the attention of the gentlemen,
and the train of a lady's robe was not so hastily
drawn from the open door as to escape the prisoner's
eye. The governor walked forward, closed the
door, and then said, in a polite tone of sympathy,

“I regret, sir, that the fortune of war has placed
you in our hands. For one so young, methinks,”
he added, surveying him attentively, and then
speaking somewhat sternly, “you are rather old in
rebellion against your lawful monarch.”

“I am not too young, Governor Carleton,” firmly
replied the prisoner, “to distinguish oppression
from injustice, and to know that George of England
has no better title to my allegiance or that of
my countrymen than Louis of France. When the
monarch encroaches upon the liberty of the subject,
the latter is not to be censured for asserting his invaded
rights.”

“Nay, young sir, your patriotism, like that of
your hot-headed fellow-colonists, outruns your judgment.
Great Britain is the colonial mother of your
states; and, as such, is entitled to your allegiance
until she herself acknowledges your independence.
And, forsooth, because she desires you to contribute
to the support of the government which protects
you, you rise up in arms, and involve her in
a civil war.”

“The tax you allude to, which she levied and
which we resist, was not for the just and necessary
expenses of government, but for defraying the cost
of the conquest of these very Canada's which she
now holds. We did not choose to pay for Canada,
nor did we esteem it the part of political wisdom to

pour our money into her coffers without receiving
some benefit from its outlay.”

“Here you err again, my dear sir,” said the governor,
as if wishing to persuade; “you had the interest
which all Britons, whether colonists or Englishmen,
feel in the growth of empire.”

“But we were not regarded as Englishmen,
nor were the privileges and blessings of the British
constitution shared by us. If we are Britons,
why is not our voice heard on the floor of parliament?
We ought—and future ages will echo the
sentiment—to cast off our allegiance to the colonial
mother rather than submit to be taxed in any mode
whatsoever without being represented in the imperial
senate.”

“There may be something very plausible in all
this,” said the governor, in a careless tone, as if dismissing
the subject; “but, sir,” he added, advancing
and taking him by the arm, and leading him from
the place where he had continued to stand between
his guards to the opposite extremity of the balcony,
“I regret extremely that a gentleman apparently
so well calculated to adorn society, and possessing
talents and address to enable him to make his way
among men, should have taken so unfortunate a side
in this unhappy quarrel. The war will soon terminate,
and the colonists who have engaged in it
will labour under his majesty's displeasure; and, I
fear, much blood will be shed, even on the scaffold,
before all will be over. You are a volunteer, and
therefore hold no commission in the rebel army,
hence you will break no faith therein. Be persuaded
by me to accept a commission in his majesty's
service, and I will ensure you rapid promotion.
After the war, if I am not deceived in you,
I will favourably represent you to his majesty.
Otherwise,” he added, with some show of feeling,

but with marked emphasis upon the last word, “I
shall have to commit you to prison.”

“I am flattered, Governor Carleton, by the confidence
you are pleased to bestow on me,” replied
the prisoner, with cold politeness, “and appreciate
your kind offer of patronage, but I fear I must forfeit
your good-will in choosing the fate which war
has allotted me.”

“You will not, then, embrace my proposal, young
gentleman?” said the governor, with some sternness
of manner, fixing his penetrating eyes upon
his face.

“I will not, General Carleton,” he replied, firmly,
meeting his glance with an eye as keen and resolute
as his own.

“Then take the consequences of your folly,” said
the general, turning away from him in displeasure,
chagrined at his want of success, while at the same
time really feeling interested in the fate of one so
young and prepossessing in his address, for whose
neck he beheld, in perspective, a gibbet or a block.
“Miltimore, conduct your prisoner for the present
to the guardroom of the hall, and desire Captain
M`Lean to attend me here, that we may arrange for
the disposal of the other prisoners.”

The fate of the captive besiegers was soon decided.
They were thrust into the Dauphin prison,
there to await, in extraordinary suffering and privations
both from hunger and the severity of the
season, their release, either by exchange or some
favourable operation of the war.

The apartment allotted to the prisoner in the
Chateau Saint Louis, at that period the military
quarters of the governor, was a small oriel or anteroom
adjoining the main hall; and, under the ancient
regime, was often used for the temporary
confinement of state-prisoners. It was built on the

extremity of a bastion or wing of the building, and
overhung the precipice. A single window lighted
the cell and looked down upon the Lower Town,
commanding a view of the basin in front of the
city, and the shores of the St. Lawrence for many
leagues. The window was without the precautionary
addition of iron bars, as the possibility of escape
was effectually precluded by the dizzy precipice
which met the eye of the captive as it followed,
with a giddy brain, its sheer descent of three
hundred feet to the water.

The prisoner, on being left alone, approached
the window and listlessly looked forth. At once
his gaze was fixed in admiration on the sublimity
of the prospect that burst on his sight. The
storm had ceased, and the rising sun, dissipating
the clouds that, in innumerable fragments, mottled
the brilliant blue of the heavens, shed a cheerful
glow over the landscape, which, although mantled
in snow, presented a majesty of outline that winter
had no power to diminish.

The St. Lawrence moved majestically past, like
a lake in motion. Its bosom was relieved by vessels
of war; and numerous merchant craft of every
class, from the tall Indiaman to the light sloop, and
small sailboats, light skiffs, and batteaux moving in
different directions, gave life and spirit to the picture.
The towering promontory on which the citadel
stood stretched away from his eye like a gigantic
wall, and was lost in the outline of the distant
shores of the mainland; and the stupendous
cataract of Montmorenci arrested his eye as it leaped
from a cliff two hundred feet in perpendicular
height in an extended sheet of foam, that rivalled
in whiteness the surrounding snow. The distant
populous country; the forests, churches, and picturesque
villages; the lofty mountains, the summits

of which lined the horizon; Point Levi, with its
cottages and towers; the battlements running along
the edge of the precipice; the density of the Lower
Town; its crooked streets of rude stone houses,
alive with the victors and parties of his fellow-prisoners
on their way to confinement under strong escort,
all formed a striking scene, which was vividly
impressed upon the mind, and was long retained
in the memory, of the youthful captive.

Governor Carleton had scarcely dismissed his
prisoner, with a sternness proportionate to his mortification
at his failure in the conversion of a rebel
to loyalty, when the door of the balcony opened,
and a graceful female, veiled to the feet, came from
the room to which the attention of both the governor
and his prisoner had been attracted in the
early part of the conference. Approaching him as
he was promenading the gallery, supporting his
steps with his sheathed sword, which he used like
a walking-stick, she placed a fair hand upon his
shoulder, and removing her veil, though not sufficiently
to exhibit the whole of her features, which
were fair and youthful, said,

“I congratulate you, my dear governor, on the
surrender of the rebel troops to his majesty's arms.”

“'Tis a glorious victory, child, and has saved his
majesty's provinces.”

“There must be a great many prisoner,” she
continued; “I wonder what you will do with them
all?”

“Lock them up till the rebels treat for them.
But they ought to be shot, every one of them, as
insurgents.”

“Wouldn't it be wisest, general, to try and persuade
them to join his majesty's colours? A little
eloquence, I think, should succeed with them.”

“No eloquence but that of the British bayonet

will avail,” he said, hastily. “They are stubborn
like all rebels, and obstinately bent on their own
ruin.”

“But why do you not make the attempt, general?”

“I have done so. But now I sent to prison a
noble-looking youth, with the eye of Mars, and a
brow and bearing that should have been that of a
prince instead of an untitled rebel, and who from
the first I took a fancy to, because I thought I discovered
in him the elements which go to make a
man in these stirring times. And, forsooth, when
I offered him his liberty and an honourable commission
under his legitimate king, what does he
but thank me as coolly as if he had only declined
a glass of wine, and say he would rather choose a
king's prison than a king's commission.”

“And were you so cruel as to send the youth to
prison, sir?” inquired the lady, in a tone of mingled
sympathy and reproach.

“That was I; he is now doing penance in the
guardroom cell.”

“I wish you would let me persuade him, my
dear General Carleton,” she said, in a voice of the
most insinuating sweetness.

“Cupid forfend!” said the governor, smiling.
“Dost thou think those pretty eyes could convert
an arrant rebel into a good subject? Nay, nay,
my little novice, I am too old a falconer to train an
eyas with a dove, coo it never so sweetly.”

The maiden appeared for a moment embarrassed,
and then said,

“I can't bear that this poor youth should be shut
up in a cold prison. Will you give me leave to
send Father Eustache to talk with him? I am sure
holy council will avail him much.”

“Thou art a true Catholic, girl, even though

thou likest not a convent's walls. But who will
answer that Father Eustache be not himself won
by the youth? Our Canadian priests are already
but indifferently affected towards the government.”

“I will answer for his loyalty with my life,” she
said, warmly.

“Were I a score of years younger,” said the
governor, with gallantry, “I would accept the security;
but bargain that the gage should be thy
hand instead of thy life.”

“A poor hand, without roof or rood,” she replied,
with emotion.

“If justice can get thee back roof and rood, thou
wilt yet hold a dowry in thy hand, that, with thy
person, shall mate thee with the noblest. But go;
have it your own way. But see that this new proselyte
of Father Eustache's steal not thy heart if I
take him, on repentance, into my military family.
I must send thee to England, if once your eyes
meet, to keep your lands from owning a colonial
lord. Now go, for here comes M`Lean. Send
me word—nay, come yourself, and tell me how
your legate succeeds.”

“You give me leave, then, to send the priest to
the officer in the guardroom?” she said, turning
back and speaking in a lively tone as she passed a
window opening on the balcony where a guard was
constantly stationed.

“Yes, yes,” he replied, impatiently, as Colonel
M`Lean entered.

“You hear that, soldier?” she said, lifting her
forefinger as if to attract attention.

“Yes, lady,” replied the armed automaton.

“Then send that man who is smoking by the
fire to tell the guard of the prisoner's cell to be ready
to admit a priest, by the governor's order, in a quarter
of an hour from this time.”

The guard briefly conveyed the order to the soldier,
and the lady immediately disappeared through
the door from which she had issued upon the balcony.

In a short time afterward, the sentinel stationed
in the hall, into which the door of the prisoner's
cell opened, was accosted by a priest advancing towards
him from that part of the chateau appropriated
to the governor's family, who demanded admittance
to the prisoner in a voice scarcely heard beneath
his cowl, which, with the privilege of the priestly
order, he wore closely muffled about his face.

“I have no order from the general, Sir Priest,”
said the soldier.

The priest started as if embarrassed, and was
at length about to retreat, when a soldier slowly
opened one of the doors, and said, in a drawling,
gaping tone,

“Oh—h! John, I'd like to forgot. The general
says as 'ow you must let in a priest to pray with—
hey! there he be now; well, that's all right, then,
and no mistake made. Heighho! eigho!” and the
diligent messenger, gaping for the third time, closed
the door and slowly disappeared.

“Well, I suppose it is all right, though I like
to see written orders,” grumbled the soldier, taking
the keys from his belt and putting one of them into
the lock of a small door near him. Then turning
the heavy bolt, he admitted the priest, and, closing
the door after him, cautiously turned the key.

The prisoner was still leaning out of the win
dow, his eye watching with apparent interest the
manœuvres of a vessel of war which was hovering
about the shores of Cape Rouge, but his mind
occupied by reflections on the temporary suspension
of his liberty, and the check it placed upon
the brilliant military career his ambitious aspira

tions had marked out, when the opening of the door
of his cell roused him from his gloomy contemplation.
Turning quickly round, he beheld the intruder,
who raised a finger in a cautionary manner;
then dropping the hood and robe, the lovely form of
Eugenie de Lisle stood before him, and the next
moment was clasped to his heart.

“Eugenie, my charming Eugenie!” he exclaimed,
“is this reality or a vision?”

“Nay, if you doubt my identity,” said the blushing
novice, disengaging herself from his ardent embrace,
“especially after such a mode as you have
chosen to convince your senses that I am flesh and
blood, I had best vanish whence I came.”

“Not so, sweet Eugenie,” he said, seizing her
hand as if to detain her; “I am convinced of your
claim to mortality, though, if cherubs have lips, I
would swear those I have but now pressed were
no mortal ones. But tell me, whether of heaven
or earth, for both may justly claim you, Eugenie,”
he continued, pressing her hand, and looking into
her eyes with a gaze that fascinated her with its
love and devotion, his voice modulated to tones of
inconceivable sweetness; “explain the mystery of
your appearance here. Does the camp offer such
charms for one so lovely that she must leave the
roof of her protectress to follow its fortunes?”

“Or the fortunes of one in the camp, you would
say, sir,” she answered, with playful irony. “Upon
my word, you young soldiers think your charms so
irresistible, that maidens have nothing better to do
than race the country to feast their eyes upon them
withal. Now if you think I followed you to the
siege because, like a heroine of romance, I could
not endure your absence, you are marvellously deceived.
I am here for the same reason that you
are, my gallant cavalier, because I could not help

it. But sit here; nay, a little farther off! well, that
will do; and now, if you will be very quiet, I will
tell my story.”

In a tone more natural to her, and in better keeping
with the true state of her heart, the feelings of
which, the maidenly raillery she assumed for the
purpose of disguising only served to betray, she
briefly recounted her adventures, to which we will
devote the beginning of a new chapter.

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE ESCAPE.

“The evening you parted from me so very sentimentally,”
commenced Eugenie, with mock gravity,
and putting herself in the genuine story-telling
attitude, “the faithful Horsford, without falling in
love with me, as good General Montgomery predicted,
placed me in the charge of Colonel Olney,
from whom and the general's lady I received every
kindness which a distressed damsel could demand.
The colonel's chateau is situated close to the river,
and a gallery in the rear of the wing I was to occupy
overhung the water. After I had retired to
my room, wakeful from the various adventures of
the day, and with my imagination too lively to yield
to sleep, I threw up my window, which opened
upon the gallery, and, wrapping myself in a fur
bonnet and cloak of Colonel Olney's, for a while
promenaded there.”

“Waiting for some invisible serenader, like a
true heroine.” said Burton, smiling.

“Did I not bid you be silent, Edward? Beware,
or you will get but a half-told tale! I had walked
but a few minutes, however, when other music than
that of the guitar and lute reached my ears. It
came from the water. I leaned over the balustrade
and looked down upon the river, when the sound of
oars became very plain, and I could see indistinctly
through the darkness a boat approaching the
land. In a little while it came to the beach directly
under the chateau, and two men stepped on
shore.

“They walked apart from those who remained
in the boat, and at length stopped, in low but animated
conversation, at the foot of the rock overhung
by the balcony. I listened a few moments,
and catching some words, such as `Quebec,' `Montgomery,'
and `Colonel Arnold,' the legitimate curiosity
of my sex was roused to learn more. So,
wrapping my mantelet closer about my person, I
descended a flight of stairs leading from the gallery
to a rough path down the side of the cliff. This I
entered. After winding round the rock for a short
distance, it conducted me to a small level area at
the foot, and close to the speakers, from whom a
sharp angle of the precipice only separated me. I
could now hear every word, and soon ascertained
that Sir Guy Carleton was one of the two. The
other I afterward learned was an influential tory
from the States.

“They spoke of the affairs which are on every
tongue; of the approach of Colonel Arnold; the
danger of Quebec; the successes of Montgomery,
and of the strength of the king's party in the colonies.
Governor Carleton at length gave some instruction
and letters to the other, who took leave
of him and proceeded along the beach toward Trois
Rivières. At the same moment I regained the

path, to make good my retreat to the chateau; but,
in my haste, my foot slipped on the icy surface,
and, displacing a stone, the noise drew the attention
of Governor Carleton, who was hastening back
to his boat. At once suspecting a listener to his
conversation, which, nevertheless, did not at all reward
my curiosity nor repay me for my trouble, he
stopped and narrowly surveyed the face of the rock,
when his quick eye detected the interloper. He
sprang up the ascent, and the next moment I was
his prisoner, rescue or no rescue. Before I could
explain who I was or why I was there, I found
myself seated in the boat between two rough soldiers,
and facing Governor Carleton, on my way
down the river. In reply to his interrogatories,
I explained, very much to his astonishment, supposing
he had caught some rebel spy to make an
example of, who I was and how I came to be at
the chateau, and, subsequently, his prisoner. He
recognised me by the boat-lamp, and I had the
pleasure of exchanging my seat between my ruffian-looking
guards for a place by the side of my captor.

“The next morning I arrived at Quebec, and
have ever since remained in the family of Governor
Carleton, who has manifested a deep interest
in me, and already taken legal steps preparatory
to the investigation of my hereditary rights.
The acquaintance of Sir Guy Carleton with my father,
and his intimacy with Madame Montmorin,”
concluded Eugenie, “renders the chateau more a
home to me than Colonel Olney's would have been.
“My presence here,” she added, with feeling, “also
affords me an opportunity of repaying in kind a
debt of gratitude I owe you, Edward, for an escape
some weeks since from a prison even more
dreary than this.”

As she alluded to the period which introduced to

her heart the image of one who had since solely possessed
it, and, at the same time, recalled the progress
of that love, strengthened amid numerous dangers;
the faltering tones of her voice, the softness
of her manner, the telltale cheek and drooping eyelid,
ingenuously told a tale of love to which the sentiments
of the youthful soldier responded. Gently
drawing her to his heart, he for the first time sought
and received from her lips the assurance that he
was beloved. Before they separated from that lingering
embrace they had exchanged vows of unchanging
constancy. The words were registered
in heaven! but, alas, they were uttered on earth,
and by mortals!

The ringing of a musket on the pavement of
the hall, and the tramp and voices of men relieving
guard, recalled them from bright creations of the
future to the realities of the present moment.

“A monk hath gone in, I suppose, to confess
the prisoner,” said a voice, which Eugenie recognised
to be that of the guard. “You will have to
let him out when he gets through.”

“Ay, ay! lave me for doin' that same,” replied
the soldier who had relieved him; “and, by St.
Pathrick, will I axs him for absolution and holy
wather for me sins.”

“'Twould take the Red Sea to wash your sins
out, Teddy,” rejoined the soldier, with a laugh.
“You'd best ask him to give ye a little o' the oil of
extreme unction to make your skin slippery, so
that, if the devil grabs you, you can slip through
his fingers like an eel.”

“The divil hould ye wid his clutches in purgatory,
omadhown an misbelaaver that ye are,” replied
Teddy, as the hall door closed and separated
him from his opponent.

His measured tread was soon alone heard moving
regularly across the hall.

“Dearest Eugenie, you have placed yourself in
danger by visiting me,” said the lover. “I fear
your anxiety on my—”

“Now, do not say anything too flattering to
yourself, my dear Burton. I am in no jeopardy
whatever. It is you who are in danger, and,” she
said, firmly, “I am determined to aid your escape.”

“Impossible, my lovely enthusiast. If I possessed
wings, as I have no doubt you do, why I
might, perhaps, fly from this window and find freedom
on yonder promontory; but otherwise there
is little chance for me.”

“This monk's frock will serve you better,” she
said, with animation, “than wings, Edward, if you
will envelop yourself in it and pass the sentinel as
Father Eustache, as I have done. The way is
open to the gate. There you will find no obstacles,
for priests are privileged, their holy duties
calling them forth at all seasons.”

“Romantic girl!” he said, embracing her; “you
should be a soldier's bride! But this may not be.
The attempt possibly might be successful; but I
cannot consent to adopt the steps you propose to
gain my liberty. You will be sacrificed to Governor
Carleton's displeasure, which will fall upon
you when he learns my escape.”

“He cannot injure a woman!”

“But he will withdraw his paternal care from
you.”

“He will not. But I am willing to sacrifice it,
if need be, and all else, to save your life.”

“But my life is not in danger, Eugenie.”

“But it may be,” she said, earnestly. “Oh, I
cannot live and know that you are in a dreary
prison. This is not long to be the place of your
confinement. You will be removed within the
hour, and be thrown into some gloomy prison, perhaps

the horrid Dauphin, with a hundred others,
and exposed to every privation. No, no, you must
consent to escape. I will promise you my agency
shall never be known to the governor.”

“Assure me that you will not suffer by your
generosity, and I will yield, noble Eugenie.”

“Oh, how stubborn you are! You never thought
of obstacles when you released me from my religious
imprisonment.”

“But I had a prize worthy of every sacrifice to
rescue,” he said, ardently.

“And have not I a prize? Nay, do you not now,
by doing what I request, serve me more than you
then did, inasmuch as your liberty is dearer to me
than my own? Must Eugenie believe herself less
dear to Edward now than she was then?”

“Dearest, noble Eugenie! You have conquered!
If you will only assure me that Governor Carleton
can in any way be kept in ignorance of your agency
in this romantic attempt, I will obey you.”

“The guard will permit whoever goes out disguised
in this monk's frock to pass freely. I will
remain here until from this window I see you take
boat and land at Point Levi on the opposite shore.
Then, assured of your safety, I will boldly call the
guard to let me out. If he betrays any surprise, I
will amuse him with some excuse, for, as I have
been here some weeks, most of the chateau guards
know my person. When your escape is discovered,
his own safety will keep his tongue.”

“'Tis well planned, my brave Eugenie. But
still I fear the result.”

At length, yielding to the arguments, entreaties,
and even tears, woman's last resort, of Eugenie,
the prisoner consented to escape after settling
the place of their next meeting. Disguising himself

in the monk's cassock, he said, as he drew the
cowl about his face,

“This has been fortune's cap to me, and I cheerfully
trust to it once more.”

“Remember,” she said, impressively, “you are
to leave the city immediately for the States. I
shall anxiously follow your escape with my eyes
till you arrive at Point Levi.”

“I remember! and that in the spring I return
to claim my bride!”

“If my father's lands are mine. Thou shalt not
take me penniless. If your restless spirit must find
employment in war, seek it nearer its great theatre,
in the province of New-York.”

A brief and protracted leave-taking took place
between them, after the manner of all true lovers,
and especially as became the hero and heroine
of a romance. Burton now informed her of the
death of her friend and protector, General Montgomery,
which deeply affected her, and added to
the sadness of their parting.

He now called to the guard and was let out by
him; not, however, without being solicited for absolution;
but he hastily passed him and safely gained
the outside of the chateau.

Muffling his face in his cowl, he steadily pursued
his way through the narrow avenues of the town,
between rows of ancient stone houses, in the direction
of the Mountain street, which led from the citadel
to the Lower Town. At one moment he
was jostled by a crowd of soldiers, who paid little
respect to his holy garments; at another involved in
a group of females and children, crowding with lamentations
about the dwelling of some burgher or
artificer slain in the assault. Once, at the corner of
a street, his robe was seized by a youth, who entreated
him to hasten and confess his father in the
last agonies. He was about to follow the boy as

the only alternative of preserving his apparent character,
and turning suspicion from his disguise, when
a child came running and saying,

“It is too late; trouble not the holy father.”

Descending the precipitous way cut in the face
of the cliff, he encountered a file of prisoners, escorted,
on their way to prison, by a detachment of
soldiers. As the road was narrow and the crowd
great, he was compelled to walk past so close as
to brush against them. He had nearly escaped the
throng when he was gently pulled by the sleeve.
Turning hastily, and in some alarm, he caught the
eye of Zacharie, who was tied to another prisoner
by a stout cord.

His first impulse was to endeavour to effect his
release. Stopping, he rapidly ran over in his mind
some feasible plan to liberate his esquire from his
thraldom. His motive was understood by Zacharie,
who immediately set up a most lamentable cry,
twisting his features into contortions inimitably expressive
of violent pain, and crying out,

“Oh, I am dying! Oh, for a holy priest to relieve
my conscience! Misericorde! Oh, a priest,
a priest!” and, flinging himself upon his knees beside
his fellow-prisoner, to whom he was bound, he
lifted up his voice in the most pitiful wailings.

Before the monk could recover from his astonishment,
he was seized by half a dozen burghers
and soldiers, and dragged with pious celerity to the
dying penitent.

“The saints reward you,” cried the sufferer.
“Oh, stand back! Father, my soul—oh, oh—I
shall not live. Oh—holy monk, thine ear.”

The bewildered monk bent his ear to the feigning
penitent, when he said quickly, in a low voice,

“Bid the villains cut my cords. Oh, I shall die
—my hands,” he began, in a higher key than before.

“Cast the cord loose,” said the monk, now in
some degree enlightened.

The prisoner was instantly released, but his
howlings continued to increase rather than diminish,
and he rolled over the ground in apparent agony.
The captain of the guard at length said,

“Leave the poor lad with the father. If he recovers,
we'll make him responsible for him. If he
die, as he's like to, why the priest can bury him.”

The detachment of prisoners again marched forward;
and, as their distance increased, so did the
invalid's malady decrease. He at length became
so much better as to lean on the monk's arm, who
promised the dispersing crowd that he would be
accountable for him.

“He's but small fry, any how,” said a citizen,
turning away.

“'Tis Father Eustache, I think,” observed another,
as the priest and his penitent walked slowly
down the hill.

“I think he be,” replied a third, “though he looks
some bit shorter than the father.”

The monk no sooner arrived in the Lower Town,
than Zacharie was miraculously restored to the full
possession of his health, and walked briskly beside
his deliverer towards the quay.

“Zacharie,” said the monk, “your lungs do you
credit, and, what with your wits, have held you in
good stead to-day. I suppose you will use your
liberty, if we get safe across the water, to good
purpose, and return to study the humanities with
Father Ducosse.”

“I prefer studying the broadsword with thee, sir.”

“But I am on my way to the States.”

“Then am I,” said Zacharie.

Finally, as he could not be prevailed on to return
to his maternal roof, he was permitted to remain

with his master, who knew from experience
the value of his services.

On their way through the streets they passed a
house which had been occupied by the American
troops. Numerous dead bodies were lying about,
some of them half-hanging from windows, others
laid across the threshold, or piled before the doors.
They paused here an instant; and the monk gazed
on the scene with emotions in which disappointment
and regret for the fate of the day were mingled
with revulsion at the gory spectacle of human
carnage.

They were about walking forward again when
a deep groan fell upon their ears. Burton's steps
were arrested; and, looking round, he beheld in a
recess, reclining on the pavement, with his back
supported by an aged larch which grew beside the
building, an officer apparently severely wounded
He drew near him, and recognised Captain Germaine.
The wounded man lifted his eyes at his
approach, and feebly extended one hand, while he
covered his breast with the other, vainly trying to
stanch the blood which, from a deep wound, oozed
through his fingers.

“Not badly hurt, my dear captain?” inquired
Burton, putting aside his cowl and showing his
face, while he sympathizingly took his hand.

“Dying, Major Burton. My campaign is ended
for this life.”

“Not so bad, I trust, Captain Germaine.”

“It is all over, major. I have one request to
make before life runs quite away. I have a fond
wife and an affectionate daughter. Take a locket
and papers from my breast when I am dead, and
bear it—oh, God, that I should die and leave them
desolate! Take it—bear it to them with my dying
affection.”

“It shall be done as you wish,” said Burton,
pressing his hand with warmth.

The dying soldier acknowledged his gratitude by
a look of satisfaction, and then feebly articulating,

“Laura, my dear wife—Caroline, my child—
farewell! Give my Laura your hand from mine,
major. Tell her it received my last grasp in
death.”

In a few moments the soldier was no more. Burton
closed his eyes, and removed the packet and
miniature undisturbed by the few passengers gliding
with alarmed and anxious faces through the
streets, who, viewing his religious garb, believed
he was performing the last duties of religion to a
soul, and respected his sacred office. Covering the
dead soldier with his cloak, Burton cast towards
him a farewell look, and, with Zacharie, hastened on
his way to the river, and embarked for the southern
shore.

As the footsteps of her departing lover died
away at the extremity of the hall, Eugenie, with
a face beaming with hope, while her heart throbbed
with anxiety, took her station by the window to
trace his flight. She caught sight of his form as he
descended the steep thoroughfare of the town, and
with speechless terror saw him seized by the soldiers;
and, although her limbs scarcely supported
her sinking frame, and her eyes grew dim with the
intensity of her gaze, she watched the whole scene,
altogether incomprehensible to her, until the procession
of prisoners again moved on. With a prayer
of gratitude upon her lips, she saw him again proceed
on his way, supporting a youth. Her eye
followed him until he was hidden by the roofs of a
projecting hangard or warehouse, when he was lost
to her gaze in the windings of the irregular streets.
Soon afterward she saw him, still, to her surprise,

attended by his companion, arrive at the shore and
put off in one of the numerous batteaux that plied
for hire between the city and Point Levi.

She kept her place at the window, and gazed after
the boat until its inmates were scarcely distinguishable,
and from time to time answering the wave of a
white handkerchief which fluttered for an instant, as
if by accident, above the head of one who sat in the
stern, with a less cautious signal of her fair hand.
When the boat was blended with the opposite
shore, she strained her eyes to distinguish the form
of her lover as he disembarked. The smile that
dwelt on her lip when she was at length assured of
his safety from pursuit was instantly chased away
by the tears that came fast into her eyes when she
thought she should behold him no more for many
months, perhaps never meet him again on earth.
Between mingled emotions of joy and sorrow, the
maiden, losing the heroine in the woman, kneeled
by the window, and, with clasped hands and full
heart, thanked Heaven for his escape. She then
put up a silent prayer for their speedy and happy
reunion.

Now casting a long, lingering look towards the
opposite shore, she turned with a deep sigh from
the window. After making one or two ineffectual
attempts to address the sentinel, she at length,
by a strong mental effort, summoned that energy
which her situation demanded, and, with a smile at
anticipating his surprise, said, in a firm, confident
tone,

“Ho, Sir Soldier! draw bolt and let me out.
Do gallant Irishmen keep guard over ladies?”

“The divil, thin! but 'tis a faamale voice!”

“To be sure it is. So let me come out if you
be a true Irishman.”

“You're a leddy, by your own swate spaking lips.

But, faith now, I've no orthers ony for the praast as
is off, widout nivir laaving a blissin ahint him.”

“I do myself give you orders to let me out.”

“An' if ye'll tell me, honey swate, what is yer
own jewill of a name, I'll maybe let ye out.”

“`Have you never heard tell of Kate Kearney?”'
sung, or rather chanted his prisoner in reply, and
in a lively voice of such sweetness that, either at
the name or by association, the Irishman's heart
opened, and, applying the key to the door, he said
as he turned the bolt,

“By St. Pathrick, an' I'm the lad has often heard
till of Kate Kearney of Killarney; and if—och
hone! here's traason in pitticoats,” he cried, as
his prisoner darted through the half-opened door
like an arrow, knocked his musket down with a
heavy clash, and disappeared through the hall leading
to the inhabited wing of the chateau.

Recovering his musket, the astonished Teddy
found that the cell was deserted; neither priest
nor prisoner was to be seen. At first he prepared
to lift up his voice to give the alarm; but the reflection
how far he might be suspected in aiding
the escape of the prisoner, whom he believed he had
permitted to pass by him in the guise of a female,
suggested to him the expediency of forestalling an
examination and a military sentence by desertion
to the enemy. Suppressing, therefore, a sort of
Irish howl with which he was about to give voice
to his lamentations, he carefully locked the door of
the cell, stole from the chateau, and found his way
into the enemy's camp, which, under General Arnold,
who had now assumed the command, was
pitched three miles from the city, with the object
of reducing it by a blockade. Eugenie gained her
room undiscovered and unsuspected. On learning
the escape of his prisoner and the simultaneous

desertion of the guard, Governor Carleton was impressed
with the idea that the soldier had betrayed
his trust, and voluntarily liberated and escaped with
him.

Leaving the northern division of the American
army to its destinies, we shall now transfer the
scenes of our story to a period some months later
than that embraced by this volume, and fix them on
an equally important theatre of the war which gave
to these United States their independence.