University of Virginia Library

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.