I AM TORTURED BY MYSELF AND OTHERS
In some manner I controlled myself, and in the confusion which
followed Lucy's wild cry I opened the door beside me and stepped
noiselessly into the adjoining room.
I sank down into a chair, benumbed in body and bewildered in mind.
Everything was in a whirl of confusion, and through it I heard the
heart-breaking cry that was no hallucination of madness, no fancy
of a disordered mind, but an arraignment straight from the heart
of a woman who perhaps had suffered beyond what I was suffering
now.
What was happening behind those closed doors? Once the mad impulse
flashed across me to enter and learn the worst, but I shrank appalled
at the thought of exposing myself to further humiliation. In my
seeking for some escape, I even questioned if I had heard aright;
it seemed impossible that there should not be some explanation,
that there was not some horrible mistake, and a fierce anger swept
over me at the injustice of it all.
Had I wasted the love of my youth--the love of my life--on a man
whom I had endowed with every noble quality of which I could conceive
to find that he was only of the same common clay as others whose
advances I had ignored because I had set him so high?
In my anger I put him beneath all others, because, as a silly girl,
I had been blinded by my own delusions, and, as a foolish woman,
I had gone on dreaming the dreams of a girl. The thought, too, of
Lucy having been so close to me all these months, and of how nearly
I had confided in her, stung me like a blow.
And this was the end! I had wasted every affection of my nature in
blind worship of the idol which now lay shattered at the first
blow. I had wandered with reckless feet far from the path in which
all prudent women tread, to find myself in a wilderness alone and
without a refuge. My secret was in the keeping of Sarennes, who
would sooner or later betray it, when he thought by so doing he
could bend me to his will.
Why had I never looked at this with the same eyes, the same brain
I had used in other matters? In other matters I had conducted myself
as a reasonable woman should; but in this, the weightiest affair
in my life, had I wandered, without sane thought, without any guide
save impulses so unreasoning that they could scarce have even swayed
my judgment in other things.
Then, my anger having passed, I saw the whole incredible folly of
my life, and alone and in bitter misery I trod the Valley of
Humiliation, until with wearied soul and softened heart I knelt
and prayed for deliverance.
When I returned to the house the effort to meet and talk with others
did much to restore me to myself. Angelique, I could see, was
greatly excited, and it was a pain to think that what to me was a
bitter degradation and the wreck of all my hopes could possibly be
looked upon by a young and innocent girl as a piece of curious
surmisal, perhaps to be laughed over and speculated upon, without
a thought of the misery it entailed.
In my room that night I reasoned out my whole position calmly from
the beginning, and with a chilling fear I saw myself confronted by
a new humiliation.
Had I not in my infatuation misconstrued every little kindness on
the part of Hugh, every expression of sympathy and of ordinary
courtesy, nay, every smile, and look, and word, into a language
which existed only in my credulous imagination? Had he ever spoken
a single word of love to me? Had he not even refused to answer my
girlish appeal to him at our parting? Was it, then, possible that
I was not only in a false position now, but that I had throughout
been playing that most contemptible of all roles--the infatuated
woman who imagines herself beloved by one indifferent to her? I
was overwhelmed with shame at the thought, still, turn it as I
might, I could not see that it admitted of any other conclusion.
Yet ignominious as it all was, it must be faced, for it was impossible
that I should go on lamenting or living in the misery of constant
self-reproach. If I had had the courage to defy the world in my
Quixote endeavour to right the supposed wrongs of another, should
I not put forth some measure of the same courage to protect myself?
Because I had met with a disaster humbling to my self-respect and
pride, surely I was not forced to proclaim my own defeat to the
world, and thus add ridicule to humiliation. Cost what it might,
I determined to put forth every endeavour to prevent Hugh even
suspecting the true motive of my presence in Canada until the time
should come when I might return in safety.
It cost me an effort to return to Lucy. I had almost a dislike to
see her again, but my pride came to my support, and, when I went,
I saw I had exaggerated the difficulty, for I found a different
creature awaiting me. Whatever suffering I had gone through, it
was clear this poor soul had gained some great relief, and my
selfishness was not proof against her content. She had forgotten
that I had been beside her when Hugh had entered. The greatness
of his revelation, whatever it had been, had swept away all smaller
things, and she lay there with a new light in her face, but as
quiet and self-contained as before. Had she spoken, I could not
have borne it.
My courage in respect to Hugh was not immediately put to the proof,
as he had been ordered off to Montreal, there to join M. de Levis
as aide-de-camp, and I had both time and freedom for decision.
Much to Angelique's delight, I now accompanied her to all the balls
and junketings that went on, for I had nothing further to fear,
and, alas, nothing to hope. M. de Montcalm and the others received
me with warm welcome, and made a small ovation over my appearance.
I suffered, however, as is often the case with a newcomer in a
small society, from the stupid jealousy of some of the women, who
resented my appearance as an intruder, and who more than once
started reports as to my position, which were rendered the more
persistent on account of the open championship of M. de Montcalm.
At first I thought little of this petty annoyance, but was not
prepared for the length to which some were willing to carry it.
Late one afternoon Angelique burst in upon me in a storm of
indignation:
"Marguerite, I am ashamed of my countrywomen! There has been a
scene this afternoon at Mme. de Beaubassin's which went beyond all
limits of decency. Neither your position as a stranger nor mine as
your friend was respected. It is horrible what animals women can
be when once they begin! Let me tell you what has happened, and
see if I am wrong!
"Mme. de Beaubassin, who cannot bear that any one should have any
attraction for the Marquis save herself, made some malicious remark
about you before M. Poulariez.
"'O, de grace! madame,' he exclaimed; 'surely you are going too
far!'
"'Can you answer for her, then, monsieur?' she returned, wickedly.
'Perhaps you can tell me who la belle Ecossaise really is?
"'I will answer for her,' broke in the little Joannes, whom I love,
because he is so dreadfully in earnest over everything--'I will
answer for her! I lost four hundred good crowns at pharaon last
night, but I will wager four hundred more with any lady in the
room, or I will cross swords with any gentleman in Quebec, for the
fair fame of Mme. de St. Just at any moment. I know that she is
intimate with one of the oldest friends of M. de Montcalm, that he
knows her family, and I know that she is one of the most charming
creatures I ever set eyes on!' Marguerite, I could have kissed him,
he was so gallant!
"'Then, M. Joannes, since you are so fully informed, perhaps you
will explain the whereabouts of Monsieur de St. Just! Perhaps you
will tell us why the lady was so anxious to get into Louisbourg
before the siege! Perhaps you know why she went to the ball on
Twelfth-Night in disguise! Perhaps it is clear to you why, after
refusing to meet any of us, she now goes everywhere, and seeks the
confidence of M. de Montcalm and other high officers when the plans
for the coming campaign are under discussion! That she is a
Scotchwoman she states, but I have not remarked that she is intimate
with her countryman, M. de Maxwell, of whose loyalty no one has
any doubt.'
"'Neither have I any doubt that Mme. de St. Just has her own reasons
for choosing her acquaintance, madame,' answered M. Joannes, with
the same spirit. 'But I do not see that anything is to be gained
by continuing this conversation; the main thing is that I know Mme.
de St. Just to be a lady of both family and position.'
"'Do you happen to know that her brother is a captain in the English
army?'
"'I have known it for mouths past, madame. What of it'
"'And that he was a prisoner in Louisbourg?'
"'Certainly; no secret has been made of it,' he answered, as cool
as a boy at his catechism.
"She seemed much put but at this rebuff, but turned towards the
others and went on, angrily:
"'Of course a woman has no right to an opinion in the face of such
an authority as M. Joannes, but I am sure so patriotic a brother
will be interested in such a sister's letters, and that the authentic
news she may send from Quebec cannot fail to be of interest to his
superiors. It may be the part of an affectionate sister, ambitious
for her brother's advancement, but hardly that of a friend to be
encouraged by us. There! That is what I believe; and if you others
are too blind to see behind a pretty face and a disconsolate manner,
so much the worse for us all.'
"Marguerite, my dear, there wasn't a man in the room who didn't
protest against her ungenerous suspicions. I was proud of them
all! But none of the women said a word, and the spiteful little
creature stuck to her ground, vowing she would speak to the Marquis,
so that he, at least, should not be unwarned.
"I waited until she was done, for I was determined to hear the end,
and then I said:
"'Mme. de Beaubassin, I have not spoken because I am only a girl,
and neither my mother's hospitality, nor my mother's guest, requires
any defence from me; I trust both implicitly. Our thanks and those
of Mme. de St. Just, our friend, are due to every gentleman in
the room. I was under some obligation to you, madame, for your
attentions to me in the past, but you have more than cancelled them
now, and I will not enter your door again until you have apologised
to us all.'
"'My dear child,' she said, with her hateful smile, 'you are young,
but time will correct that, as well as your breeding and your
judgment; until then I shall miss your society, but will pray for
your enlightenment.'
"Did you ever hear anything so abominable! M. Poulariez gave me
his hand, and the dear little Joannes followed us to the door,
whispering:
"'Brava! Brava, mademoiselle! It was excellent! You could not have
said better!'
"Now what will you do, Marguerite?"
"There is nothing to do, cherie; such things must die of themselves."
"But she said you were a spy, in so many words."
"You do not think so?"
"Oh, Marguerite!" she cried, as she jumped up and strained me to
her, covering me with kisses.
"Well, neither does your mother, nor M. de Montcalm, nor any of
the gentlemen who defended me this afternoon. My only regret is
that I should be the cause of annoyance to such friends."
Though I spake bravely enough, I could not but feel the effect of
such a report, nor fail to recognise there was oftentimes a galling
restraint on my appearance, which was only aggravated by the too
evident efforts of my champions towards its dissipation.
But all such social jealousies and plottings were scattered by the
approach of spring, when an unending activity pervaded all classes
throughout the colony. The arrival of the first ships was looked
for with anxiety, as they would bring the message of peace, or
renewed hostilities, which to me meant either escape or a continuance
of my difficulties.
It was M. Joannes who brought me the news:
"Well, madame, it seems it is to be war! But instead of money, they
have sent us some scanty provisions; and instead of a regiment,
some raw recruits to drag out this weary farce, already too long."
"I am sorry you do not look at it more hopefully, monsieur."
"How can I? Think what has happened since last spring. Louisbourg,
Frontenac, Duquesne, all lost; famine in our towns; misery in the
country; an insane jealousy on the part of the officials which
thwarts every move we suggest; corruption to an extent that is
almost beyond belief, and on every side of us an active, strong,
and enthusiastic enemy. That is the only quarter where we look for
fair play!" he ended, with the laugh of a boy who sees his sport
before him.
It was impossible that I should plan for return before we saw what
move the English might make by sea, so I abandoned all thought of
it, and settled down to await the outcome.
At the beginning of June volunteers gathered from the upper parishes,
and with the militia and troops from Montreal, crossed over the
St. Charles to take their places in the camp where M. de Levis had
already projected his works. Day after day we watched the men
toiling, and presently our lines of defence began to creep slowly
out along the shores of Beauport.
That Hugh was there I knew, but I kept myself from thinking by my
daily attendance on Lucy, whose unfailing hope saw its fulfilment
almost within touch when I told her of the certain coming of the
English. Gay parties of chattering women were made up to go out to
the camp and encourage the workers, but my heart ached too wearily
even at my own distance to wish for any nearer approach.
I stood with Angelique one evening in the garden of the Hotel-Dieu,
and even here the engineers had erected a battery overhanging the
steep cliff. Looking up towards the left, we could see the bridge
of boats, at the far end of which a hive of busy workers toiled at
a fortification, called a hornwork, while immediately below us
others were building a boom to be floated across the wide mouth of
the St. Charles to protect the bridge, and from this point on, down
the banks of the St. Lawrence, lay our main defences.
There the white coats of the regulars mingled with the blue and
grey of the Canadians and volunteers. Indians stalked or squatted
about, taking no part in a labour they could not understand; officers
moved to and fro, directing and encouraging the men, and from the
manor of Beauport floated the General's flag, marking his
headquarters.
Before this restless, toiling mass swept the great empty river,
changing its colour with every change of sky which floated over
it, while behind stretched the beautiful valley of the St. Charles,
its gentle upward sweep of woods broken only by the green fields
and white walls of Charlesbourg until it met the range of blue and
purple hills which guards it to the north. At a point opposite
where we were standing the nearer mountains opened out and shewed
a succession of golden hills which seemed, in the tender evening
light, as the gates of some heavenly country where all was peace,
and the rumour of war could never enter.
At length all preparations were complete, and we waited impatiently
for the drama to begin.
Towards the end of June the first English ships were reported, and
on the evening of the twenty-second an excited group of ladies
gathered on the Battery of the Hotel-Dieu, and through a storm
which swept down over the hills, amid the flashing of lightning
and to the roar of thunder, we watched their fleet silently file
into view in the South Channel, and come to anchor under shelter
of the Isle of Orleans. In the chapel the nuns were singing:
"Soutenez, grande Reine,
Notre pauvre pays:
Il est votre domaine.
Faites fleurir nos lis.
"L'Anglois sur nos frontieres
Porte ses etendards.
Exaucez nos prieres,
Protegez nos remparts."
And as if in answer, one by one, our watch-fires were kindled,
until they twinkled in a long unbroken line from the St. Charles
to Montmorenci.
The long siege had begun. Such an array of ships was never before
seen from the walls of Quebec. There were the flag-ships of Admirals
Saunders, Holmes, and Durell; twenty-three ships of the line,
besides frigates, transports, and a flock of smaller craft nestled
under shelter of the Island; all these crowded with ten or twelve
thousand troops under General Wolfe and his brigadiers, Monckton,
Townshend, and Murray, fresh from triumph, and determined on a
desperate effort for new conquest.
Face to face with them stretched our long line of defenders, as
resolute and as confident--regulars, militia, Indians, and volunteers,
and in the ranks of the latter the grandfather stood by the grandson;
had the wives and daughters been permitted, many of them, I doubt
not, would have held a musket beside those dearest to them.
On land and on water, there was constant change and movement; the
stately vessels moved slowly up and down, small boats plied backward
and forward, troops were landed where unopposed; on our side of
the river every eye was vigilant, guessing what each new move might
portend. No one could look upon it without a swifter-beating heart.
Before us swept all "the pomp and circumstance of war" without any
of its horror--as yet--and the panorama in which it was displayed
added to its dignity and importance.
We became accustomed to the distant boom of heavy guns, and watched
the constant movement of the combatants with much excited comment
and foolish security.
It was Gabriel who first brought us face to face with the reality.
We were surprised by his appearance at the house about the middle
of July; he looked twenty years older; all his former jauntiness
of manner had disappeared, and so dejected was his bearing I could
scarce believe it was the same man I had known.
"Mesdames," he said, "my respects to you all, though I come as a
bearer of bad tidings."
"No one expects compliments in time of war, Gabriel. Tell me it
is not my son, and you may speak freely," said the brave old lady,
with a blanched face.
"Thank God, it is not! He came into camp only yesterday, with a
hundred good men behind him, so worn out that they are fitter for
the hospital than the field, but good food and rest will set them
right again in a week. Ah, madame," he cried, with a sparkle of
his old air, "but he has tickled them rarely! Bedame! his name will
not smell sweet in their nostrils for many a long day!"
"Then tell us your news, Gabriel; anything else is easily borne."
"'Un fou fait toujours commencement,' madame, and I know not how
to begin. But the English began with M. de Sarennes, and they found
him so little to their taste that they have ended by burning the
manor at Beaulieu level with the ground, and not a barn nor
out-building is left on the domaine."
"If their sons could give such cause for reprisal, there is not a
woman in Canada who would not be proud to suffer a like revenge,"
responded the old lady, with unfaltering voice.
"Do not fear, madame, our day will come; and when it comes we will
all have our scores to wipe out. I know that I have mine!"
"Surely they have not stooped to burn your cottage?"
"No; it is safe; and so is my Amelia. My quarrel is on my own
account. They tricked me on board their fleet by flying our colours,
and carried me here."
"Do not dare to stand here and tell me that you piloted them!"
cried the old lady, with the utmost scorn.
"No, madame, I did not."
"Then you may go on," she said, sternly.
"I did not; but it makes little difference, madame."
"It makes every difference whether we are traitors or not! Go on."
"Well, madame, when I found I was trapped I made all the stir I
could. I blustered and swore, and, Heaven forgive me! I lied to
them as I had never lied before. I boasted like a Bostonnais, and
when they commanded me to take charge in the Traverse, I said no,
though I had a pistol behind my head and my Amelia before my eyes
all the time. But they did not blow my brains out--they only
laughed at me. Madame, it is dreadful to be ready to die, and find
they only laugh," and the tears streamed down his rugged cheeks as
he spake.
"My good Gabriel, we are proud of you! Go on!"
"It was of no use; they had their boats out with flags to mark the
channel, and an old devil they called Killick swept me aside as
one might a dirty rag, and took command, calling out his directions
to the boats and edging the ship along without a mistake, though
I prayed with all my soul he might ground her. He was a sorcerer,
madame, for he took the ship up as if he had done nothing else all
his life. When they were through, they jeered at me in their damnable
English, and treated me with a kindness that was harder than blows;
and then, to add to my shame, they sent me on shore with the women
last week, as if they feared me just as little, which was worst of
all."
"Never mind, Gabriel. You did all that a brave man could--and the
siege is not over yet!"
"That is true, madame," he cried, brightening under her kindly
words, "and, saving your honour, 'le mulet garde longuement un coup
de pied a son maitre,' as we say. That is my comfort."
"Will you join M. de Sarennes, Gabriel?" asked Mme. de Sarennes.
"I would like to think he had so good a man beside him."
"No, madame; I have orders to go on board the vessels at Sillery.
I will be of more use there than on shore."
"Good. You will remember Beaulieu when your turn comes with the
English!"
"I will, madame, and if le bon Dieu ever allows me that kick, rest
assured it shall be a good one!" and he left us laughing, much
comforted in his trouble.
Though never out of the sight and sound of war, we had so far
suffered but little in the city itself. We watched with curiosity
the English intrenching themselves on the opposite heights of the
Pointe de Levy, and there was much speculation among us as to their
object. That the city would be bombarded was scouted as ridiculous;
but one midnight towards the end of June we were awakened by the
heavy booming of artillery, and rushed to our windows to see the
heights of the Levy shore flashing with the explosions from the
cannon, and the hill beneath us filled with a panting, terror-stricken
crowd, laden with every conceivable description of household goods,
clambering up past us to gain some corner of safety, while the
flames from a shattered warehouse in the Basse Ville threw an
ominous glare over the blackness of the river. War in its most
terrifying guise was at our very doors, and had it not been for
the heroic calmness of Mme. de Sarennes, we should probably have
joined the distracted crowd in the streets. While affrighted women
and children, and even men, rushed past in the wildness of their
terror, filling the night with the clamour of despair, and exposing
themselves to still greater dangers in their efforts to escape,
she gathered her little household about her and set fear at defiance.
Dressed with her usual care, she sate in the drawing-room with all
the candles lighted, the shutters closed, and the curtains tightly
drawn. There was not a trace more colour than usual in her fine,
high-bred face, nor a quiver to her slender hands, nor a tremor in
her voice as she repeated some familiar psalm, or led us in the
prayers we offered unceasingly throughout the long night. Her
calmness, superior to the alarm without, dominated over the more
ignorant--she put away danger from before them--as her unshaken
confidence in a high protection inspired the more courageous.
But, for faint and stout hearted alike, it was a fearful night.
For hours the great guns played without ceasing; at the nearer
explosions the very rock on which the house was founded seemed
loosened, and the effort to control ourselves and not leap to our
feet with the terrified servants became such a strain on Angelique
and myself that we dared not let our eyes meet, for fear of an
outburst of tears.
Some time during the night, at an unusual uproar in the street,
Mme. de Sarennes sent one of the men-servants to the upper windows
to discover its cause. In a few moments he returned with
horror-stricken face--"O mon Dieu, madame! the Cathedral is on
fire! We are lost!" At which, a wail of despair broke from us all.
Angelique's head dropped on her mother's lap. "O ma mere! It was
God's own house!" she sobbed.
Her mother's white hand softly stroked her hair with reassuring
firmness, while she whispered words of comfort. Then to every
awe-struck heart about her she said, with confidence, "It was the
house of God Himself, and He has not spared it, while His hand has
been over our roof, and He is holding each one of us safe in His
keeping"; and we took fresh courage at her words.
Gradually the fire slackened, and at length ceased. The morning
came, and we were still safe and untouched, amid the surrounding
ruin.
Soon after daybreak we heard a knock at the door, and the Town-Major,
M. Joannes, was ushered in.
He looked upon us with astonishment in his tired eyes.
"Mme. de Sarennes, no one suspected you of being here! All the
inhabitants fled from the face of the town when the fire opened.
Pardon me, but you must move at once."
"We have only been waiting for orders, monsieur. Where are we to
go?"
"To the Hotel-Dieu for the present, madame; but it is quite possible
that will soon be unsafe, now they have our range. With your
permission, I will send some men at once to move what can be carried
and stored in some safer place; for you cannot expect the house to
stand through another fire."
"It has served its purpose, monsieur; we have no right to larger
regrets than have others. Come, my children, let us go."
With a last look round the room that had seen so much of her life
within its walls, she passed out, and bidding us gather our lighter
valuables and some clothing, withdrew for a few moments to her own
room, and then rejoined us in the hallway.
We made a sad little procession as we threaded our way through the
ruined streets, between the smoking and crumbling walls of the
homes we had looked upon but yesterday, bright with all the assuring
signs of comfortable, secure life, past the wrecked Cathedral, and
between piles of household goods heaped in ruinous confusion in
the Place. This was now crowded with anxious, pale-faced people,
hollow-eyed and aged with the terror of actual war, seeking out
their little valuables, some with shrill-voiced complaint and
contention, others with a hopeless, silent mien that went to our
hearts, and yet others with an air of gayety and the tricks and
buffooneries of school children.
[Illustration: "We made a sad little procession."]
We were thankful to escape out of the hubbub and distraction of
the streets to the quiet within the walls of the Hotel-Dieu; but,
alas! the next night the bombardment recommenced, and it was apparent
we could not long hope for safety, as the English fire became more
exact and far-reaching.
The white-robed nuns moved about their duties with calm resignation,
though often the trembling lips or the involuntary start told of
the strain it cost to control the natural alarm which shook the
heart when some nearer crash foretold approaching disaster.
Lucy lay calm and unmoved; every day that brought the English
nearer, was bringing her nearer to Kit. The thunder of the bombardment
was to her like the knocking on the gate which shut her in from
her one object in life, and that it was being shattered meant only
deliverance. When orders came to remove to the General Hospital,
without the walls of the town and beyond all immediate danger, she
was more disturbed than at any time during the siege.
The Hospital stood in the valley of the St. Charles, somewhat less
than a mile from the town, with the river sweeping in a great bend
on the one side, and the steep Heights, at the end of which the
town stood, rising on the other. We were cut off from any view of
the St. Lawrence, but the sight of the bridge of boats, with its
hornwork, across the tongue of land enclosed by the sweep of the
river, and the walls of the town crowning the Heights, kept us in
touch with the struggle going on between us and the English, who
still held the St. Lawrence, with its opposite shore.
The convent itself was a pile of grey stone buildings forming a
quadrangle with wings, begun by the Recollect fathers nearly a
century before. It was in two of their curious little cells that
Mme. de Sarennes, Angelique, and I were lodged. The chapel opened
out of the square entry--it scarce could be dignified as a hall--on
which the principal doorway gave, and to the right of this was the
long, low-ceilinged room, lighted by many-paned windows down one
side, which now served as a common meeting-place for the nuns of
the three congregations and their numerous guests.
Here all who were willing and able to work placed themselves under
the direction of the Superior, for the nuns had more than they
could well attend to, with the invalids of the Hotel-Dieu added to
their own, as well as the wounded, who now began to come in.
On the last day of July we heard heavy firing towards Montmorenci,
beginning about mid-day, and towards five o'clock it increased to
a continuous dull roar. It was dark before the first messenger
reached us, and our hearts were lifted by the tidings he bore. It
was victory, perhaps complete and final; the English had left
hundreds of dead behind them, and our loss was nothing.
Scarce an hour after this the wounded began to arrive, and being
but a novice to such sights, I was glad when the Superior, noticing
my pale face, called Angelique to bid us go out into the court-yard
and get a breath of fresh air. It was a welcome relief to us both,
and we were walking up and down, eagerly discussing the news, when
an officer rode in at the gate, supporting a wounded man before him.
"It is M. de Maxwell!" cried Angelique, joyfully, and my impulse
was to turn and fly, but he had already recognised Angelique, and
called to her without ceremony:
"Mademoiselle de Sarennes, will you and your companion support this
lad into the Hospital? He is not seriously wounded, only weak from
the loss of blood," and as though counting on our help without
question, he let the boy slip tenderly to the ground, and I was
forced to step forward with Angelique to his support.
Bending down from his horse, he held the boy as he directed us how
to aid him, and then whispered encouragingly: "Keep up, my lad;
you are among friends! Make your best effort before these ladies!"
[Illustration: "Keep up, my lad; you are among friends!"]
He certainly had no suspicion of who I was, for when he was satisfied
that we were equal to our task he turned his horse, and crying, "A
thousand thanks, mesdames. Good-night!" he rode slowly back through
the gates.
The lad was in Highland uniform, and I spake to him in Gaelic,
thinking to enhearten him, but he made no reply as he staggered
forward between us towards the door.
Once within, we summoned aid, and, as the lad sank into a chair,
the light fell full on his upturned face, and I saw it was that of
Christopher Routh. Hugh had gone far to redeem himself in my eyes.