CHAPTER XXV

A FORLORN HOPE

Absorbed though I was in my work, I could not but mark what was

passing between Angelique and Archie--how unconsciously my

single-hearted brother was following her in that path in which the

feeblest maid can lead the strongest of his sex.

Her imagination had been fired by the romance of his finding me,

and the story of his early adventures found in her a skilful

listener, who could extract every detail from his somewhat unwilling

lips. His endeavours to catch her nimble wit as it flew, and the

expression of awakening wonder on his face when he suspected her

of nonsense, would many a time send us into peals of laughter.

Even Mme. de Sarennes was interested, though she frankly professed

nothing beyond an armed neutrality towards our hosts.

So the winter dragged on. There was much suffering among the people,

much anxiety and constant alarms for those in command; but each

heart loved or hoped, waited or wearied, as in time of peace, and

every one looked forward with impatience or anxiety towards the

coming of spring, which would bring the denouement.

By April everything was astir once more. The familiar intercourse

of the long winter was interrupted, officers and men went about

their duties so earnestly we could not but feel that all relations

were suspended until the result should be determined. Soon news

came of the movements of our army about Montreal and elsewhere,

and the English garrison was marched out for daily exercise and

duty on the plains, and as far as Ste. Foye.

At length it was clear that some movement was imminent. Orders

were issued that the inhabitants were to leave the city--that is,

all the common people--and word was sent to the Ursulines and the

other communities that they were free to leave, did they so choose,

otherwise they must remain through the siege, should the city be

invested, and must share the fortunes of the garrison. La mere de

la Nativite, our Superior, decided at once that her community should

remain, and Mme. de Sarennes said the same for our little party.

Angelique and I stood in la rue St. Jean, and our hearts were

stirred by the wailings and lamentations of the people leaving the

town in long procession.

"Courage!" cried Angelique, to a despairing woman. "We will welcome

you all back again. You will come in with our army!"

"Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerre

Ne sait quand reviendra,"

trolled out a lusty fellow, with a laugh.

"Tais-toi, v'limeux!" cried the woman, angrily.

"il reviendra-z-a Paques,

Ou a la Trinite,"

he continued, unconcernedly, and the crowd catching at his humour,

joined in the lilting refrain, and involuntarily quickened their

steps to the "mironton, ton, taine" of the old war song, at which

Angelique clapped her hands in delight, and was rewarded with a

shout of admiration.

"They would have done better to have fed that fellow," she said,

decidedly, as we turned away; "he will do some fighting, depend

upon it."

"You are confident, Angelique?"

"Certainly, cherie; the town cannot be defended. We know that,

and if General Murray goes out, as he is sure to, he will but march

to his fate, as did our poor marquis."

On the 22d of April we were up before daybreak, and saw the garrison

march out with their cannon under a leaden sky and a cold drizzling

rain. I went about my tasks weighed down by a sickening anxiety,

for though I had renounced Hugh, it was impossible to banish him

at all times from my thoughts, and I could not but remember that,

in addition to the ordinary chances of battle, he had among his

enemies a sworn foe in my brother, and among his friends a treacherous

enemy in Sarennes. Against these dangers, at least, I could pray

for him with an undivided heart.

Noise of firing came to us through the day, which we spent in

Perpetual Adoration, but at evening the troops re-entered the town

and the battle was still unfought.

On the morrow they were again assembled, and again we watched them

march through the sodden streets.

We had not long to wait for news of the combat; every gust of wind

swept down on us the faint crackle of musketry and the deep boom

of cannon; it seemed interminable, but before the afternoon was

well advanced the first stragglers had reached the gates. They were

followed later by a mad, ungovernable mob of English troops, and

soon the streets were choked with men, shrieking, crying, and

swearing at their defeat. Their officers, with swords drawn, rode

among them, threatening and striking, entreating and commanding to

deaf ears, for the men were like wild beasts, and could not be

controlled. It was not fear; it was like to a frenzy of rage and

shame at their rout. They broke into taverns and even private

houses, and presently the madness of drink added to the pandemonium.

The wounded were with the greatest difficulty carried through the

streets, and before evening our convent and every other refuge was

crowded to the utmost.

It was a strange position for all of us; the wounded were our

nominal enemies, it is true, but we had been living with them on

terms of the kindliest intimacy for a long winter, and there was

no stimulus of duty needed to make the nuns put forth every effort

for their relief. To me they were more than generous enemies--they

were countrymen and kinsmen for whom I was bound to work with a

whole heart.

I was interrupted in my task by the appearance of Christopher.

"Madam, I have come to tell you that your brother, the Captain, is

safe."

"Is he wounded?" I asked, with swift anxiety.

"Yes, madam, but our surgeon says a fine clean cut; and I believe

him too, for he went off to sleep the moment it was dressed, more

tired than hurt. He is in his own room, where you may look at him

if you will promise not to speak," he said, with an air of the

greatest importance. "I gave Miss Angelique his clothes to attend

to as she asked, for she was there when he was brought in, and

waited until she heard the surgeon say there was no danger. She

would have liked to watch, too, but I was put in charge."

Christopher cautiously opened the door and allowed me to peep in,

and my heart was lightened at the sight of Archie sleeping quietly,

his brown curls hidden beneath a mass of bandages, but his face

composed and natural.

"Thank you, Christopher," I said. "You are a brave lad."

"There were lots more better than me," he said, modestly, "but we

didn't have a chance, for all that."

"Tell me something of what happened."

"I don't know what happened after it began. I only saw the back of

the man in front of me, and was too busy with my piece to think of

anything else, until I saw my Captain in trouble, and then my hands

were full, for the rest of the day. After I hear some of the old

powder-eaters talk, madam, I'll be able to make up a fine story

for you," he said, with a bright laugh that to me sounded like an

echo.

I hastened to our room, and there found Angelique in a state of

exultation.

"Victory, Marguerite! As I told you! Our troops are on the Heights

and hold the General Hospital, and the English are trapped in these

crazy walls!" But in an instant she calmed herself and said,

earnestly, "Now is the time for you to save us all!"

"I save you all? What do you mean?"

"Mean, Marguerite? Listen to those cries and the fighting. Do you

know what they mean? They mean that the men, the whole garrison on

which the English depend, is mad with drink and defeat--and Levis

scarce a mile away with his victorious army! Just one word to him,

Marguerite, and we are saved; he will be in the town before the

morning."

"Yes, but how can it be sent? What can I do?"

"Carry it to him!"

"Angelique, are you mad? How could I carry it?"

"There is your answer," she cried, pointing to Archie's uniform.

"You will put these things on, and you can pass the gate without

a question. Come, undress at once."

"Oh, Angelique, I cannot! Let me go as I am and I will not hesitate,

but--"

"For shame, Marguerite!" cried the high-spirited girl. "For shame!

to think of yourself and such school-girl prudery at such a time!

But forgive me, cherie; I did not quite mean that. I know what you

feel. But do you think I would hesitate had I your height and could

I speak English? No, a thousand times no! Marguerite, it must be

done! You are the only woman--the only person, man or woman--in

Quebec who can do it."

"Angelique," I cried, in an agony of distress, "think of my own

people here; it would be almost like betraying them."

"Well, think of them, but think of them as soldiers of King George

against whom you were praying night and day, not so many years ago,

as you have said yourself."

"But there is my brother!"

"He is safe in bed down-stairs; and when he is a prisoner, Marguerite,

I give you my word of honour I will go to M. de Levis and claim

him for myself, like a squaw;" and she laughed merrily.

"How can you laugh, Angelique? Don't you see what it means to me?"

"Don't you see what it means to us, Marguerite? You know how we

have hoped and suffered. You have lived among us and shared everything

we had to give, joy and sorrow alike. Do you owe nothing to us?

You were defended by him who lies in his grave below when a jealous

woman would have branded you as a spy. Do you owe nothing to the

Marquis de Montcalm? Do you owe nothing to those others who stood

between you and her malice?"

"Angelique, do you think you need remind me of these things?"

"Forgive me, cherie, if I am ungracious enough to urge the claim

of benefits bestowed. This is no time for pretty speeches. I would

urge anything to decide you."

"It is not that. If I could go as I am, and simply risk capture,

or even death, I would not hesitate."

"You cannot go as you are! A woman could not even pass through the

streets to-night; but no one will look twice at a uniform."

"But I cannot. Think what it will mean to me if I am discovered;

think what it will mean even if I succeed."

"Marguerite, Marguerite, you must forget what you are! You must

forget what you can do, and what you cannot do! Forget everything,

save that these tidings must reach M. de Levis to-night, and that

you are the only one who can carry them. There! Begin to undress

at once! Quick! Quick! Any further delay may render all useless."

Might this not be the reparation for any share I had had in the

failure of Sarennes to return to succour Louisbourg? If I accepted

it and proved successful, would not I carry into my new vocation

something more than the failure of a life that had sought but its

own ends? If I failed, would not I have attempted at least something

for those who had so generously befriended me? Was not my shrinking

from the ordeal of the disguise but a harking back to those little

conventions which I had resolved to cast aside forever? Could I

make a better use of my life than to lay it down, if need be, in

such a cause?

Reasoning thus, I caught something of the intensity of purpose

which dominated Angelique, and with fingers as eager as her own I

prepared myself for my venture.

"What if I am stopped and spoken to in the town?"

"Don't be stopped," she laughed, "and you mustn't speak unless your

life depends on it. Carry your sword in your hand, so it won't trip

you up, square your shoulders, and try to swagger like a man. Once

outside the walls, you run no danger at all. Keep on the Ste. Foye

Road, and you are sure to fall in with our people and be captured

in due form. Then say, 'Gentlemen, I am a most important prisoner;

take me at once to M. le general!' et v'la! the trick is done!

Nothing easier; if I had only learned to speak your barbarous

language, and were a little taller, I would be in your shoes

to-night, and wouldn't change places with the best lady in

Versailles!"

Chattering and laughing thus in her excitement, she shortened up

straps and adjusted buckles with as many jests as though dressing

me for a masquerade.

[Illustration: "She shortened up straps and adjusted buckles."]

"There!" she cried, as she coiled up my hair tightly, "we must do

without the wig, but the bonnet will cover a multitude of sins.

You are as pretty a looking fellow as the heart of woman could

desire. Nothing is wanting now but a brave carriage! Walk up and

down like this, till I see," and she did her best to imitate a

martial stride. "Courage, cherie! you are pale as a ghost. Courage!

and remember every heart true to France will pray for you, whether

you win or lose. You are carrying the fate of the colony in your

hands to-night. Let me kiss you, cherie. Again. Bah! I'm only crying

because I can't go in your stead. Come, I will let you out."

When the side door of the convent shut behind me and I found myself

alone in the darkness of the narrow street, my courage wellnigh

failed me, and with shame in my heart I realised I was trembling

so I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. But the rain

dashed into my face by the high wind revived me, and with an effort

I went on. As I made my way down past the Jesuits my courage

gradually returned, and resolutely thinking of my mission alone,

I banished my fears to such extent that I was enabled to grasp my

sword firmly, and step forward with some show of assurance.

As I turned into rue St. Jean a drunken soldier struck terror into

me again by shouting out a convivial salutation in Gaelic, but his

more sober comrades silenced him with low curses at his imprudence,

and I went on, unmolested.

There were not so many in the streets as I had expected, and with

this one exception no one noticed me; but as I drew near to the

St. John's Gate I made out a crowd of men busily engaged in

barricading it, and for a moment I stood still in bewildered

helplessness. I had so resolved on leaving the town by this means

that when I found it closed against me it seemed as if my whole

plan had failed. With my heart beating so I could hardly see to

direct my steps, I turned back along the way I had come, and it

was not until I drew near the Palace Hill I remembered there were

other exits. Gaining fresh courage, I turned down and made my way

to the Palace Gate, when, for the first time, it struck me that a

password must be given, and of it I was ignorant. I did not even

know the forms necessary to pass the men, and if an officer were

present I must be discovered at once; but it was now too late to

draw back, as I was in full view of the guard.

It was a strange time to remember such things, but the first line

of poor Lucy's hymn kept ringing in my head, and I advanced, saying

over and over to myself, like a charm:

"Thou very present Aid

In suffering and distress."

When I was almost face to face with the guard I made out it was

composed of sailors, and just as I expected to hear the words which

meant discovery and disgrace, one said to the other in a tone of

authority: "The Seventy-eighth. It's all right!" and without

challenging me they presented arms. Had I even known the password

I could not have pronounced it, for my tongue clave to the roof of

my mouth; but seeing my intent, the man who had spoken stepped

before me and opened the wicket. I raised my hand in acknowledgment,

and passed through.

I was without the walls.

Part III

MAXWELL'S STORY

"_Adieu, paniers, vendange sont faite._" -- Old Proverb.

CHAPTER XXVI

I CLOSE ONE ACCOUNT AND OPEN ANOTHER

Portentous as were its results, I have never been able to look upon

the battle of the 13th of September as adding anything of value to

military knowledge. From a technical view it never attained the

dignity of battle at any point, and only exceeded a skirmish in

the heavy losses and the deaths of the leading generals on each

side.

The recognition of their efforts, and of those who so ably replaced

them by their respective governments and contemporaries, read as

a sorry commentary on the popular distribution of honours.

Wolfe, almost a tyro, at one bound won immortality and immediate

applause from his countrymen; Montcalm, almost a veteran, though

mourned by those about him, was persistently vilified, even after

death, by the very man who should have been his most loyal supporter;

I do not hesitate to name M. de Vaudreuil--and I am not aware of

even a head-stone having been raised to his memory.

On the other hand, his successor, the Chevalier de Levis, met with

fitting reward and honourable advancement in his profession, and

the titles of Duke and Marshal of France are now borne with dignity

by one whose natural nobility of soul renders him eminently worthy

of such honours.

To complete the contrast, the Honourable James Murray, who succeeded

Wolfe, held an unprotected city in an enemy's country throughout

a distressing winter, handled his slender troops with contagious

enthusiasm, fought and lost a desperate battle like a gallant

soldier; later on he governed a conquered people with a consummate

tact, and still serves his country with distinction--to meet with

no other reward, that I ever heard of, than the approbation of his

conscience and the admiration of all honest men.

In writing thus openly I must disclaim any intention of carping,

for I would scorn to deprive either of the illustrious dead of a

single laurel in the crown so nobly won, but the very generosity

of contemporary admiration has a tendency to work injustice towards

the survivors.

I know personally, for I afterwards had abundant opportunity of

judging, with what stoutness of heart did that admirable soldier,

General Murray, support his misgivings, when he saw the last English

frigate sail from Quebec in the late autumn of '59, bearing his

more fortunate comrades to the reward of their gallantry, while he

and his little garrison were left in a ruined town to face all the

chances of war, to which were added the unknown dangers of a dreaded

winter season.

On our side we made our headquarters in Montreal, where the military

were busy enough, while the officials and other unemployed

classes--priests, women, and school-boys--beguiled their inaction,

and cheated themselves into hopefulness by the most chimerical and

fantastical projects for the retaking of Quebec that ever deluded

the human mind.

The truth is, we were as miserable a lot of devils on both sides

as one could well imagine. In Quebec, the English were half-starved,

half-frozen, wholly without pay, and without reliable information.

In Montreal, we had enough to eat, we were as gay as the clergy,

M. de Vaudreuil, and our miserable plight would permit; we were

without pay, it is true, but to that we had been long accustomed;

but we had the most exact information as to what went on in Quebec,

thanks to friends within its walls, while our non-fighting orders,

ever at the height of certainty or the depth of despair, had so

befooled themselves with their infallible schemes of conquest, that

they looked forward to the spring campaign with a confidence almost

pitiable in the eyes of thinking men.

Early in April, M. de Levis gathered together his motley army; the

remnants of the brigades of Bearn La Reine, La Sarre, Royal

Roussillon, Berri, and La Marine, less than four thousand in all,

with about three thousand militia and volunteers, and, supported

by a few miserable cannon, marched forth to sit down before Quebec.

We were disappointed in our first plan of attack, but on the 28th

of April, 1760, we had the good fortune to meet Murray face to face

almost on the very ground where Wolfe and Montcalm had fought in

the previous September.

Murray's force was somewhat smaller than ours, but more than equalled

it in quality, being all regular troops, besides which he had

somewhat the advantage of position; but, falling into the same

error as Montcalm, he abandoned this to begin the attack, and the

same result followed.

The battle of Ste. Foye will always command the respect of men of

discretion without regard to the side which may engage their

sympathies.

There we met a foe as brave as the heart of soldier could desire

who for hours disputed every foot of ground with us, and the one

error of the action on our part was rectified with a precision so

admirable that it but heightened the honours of the day. Before I

record this, I must note a personal incident.

Immediately in front of our left, where the regiments of Bearn and

La Sarre were stationed, stood a mill and its dependencies, belonging,

I believe, to one called Dumont, and though its possession was not

of the slightest strategical importance, by one of those strange

chances of battle it became the centre of the most obstinate fighting

on both sides. Our grenadiers took possession of it, and held it

until driven out at the point of dirk and claymore by the Highlanders,

who in turn were dislodged after a desperate hand-to-hand struggle,

whereupon the whole contest recommenced. M. de Levis, annoyed by

the useless waste of men and the danger of expending such effort

and attention on so misleading an object, sent me with orders to

have our men withdrawn.

When I arrived the struggle was again at its height, both sides

were fighting with the simple ferocity of savages, unmindful of

every rule of war. There was neither direction nor command; it was

man against man in a mad, unmeaning struggle for the pleasure of

mastery.

"Pardon, monsieur," I said to the Chevalier d'Aiguebelle, who

commanded the grenadiers, "but M. de Levis sends positive orders

that you must withdraw your men. You are distracting the attention

of the whole left."

Then catching sight of the officer in command of Fraser's I rode

forward and saluted. As he answered my salute I saw it was my once

prisoner, Nairn.

"Call off your men, Captain Nairn!" I shouted. "This is simply

murder! I have given orders for ours to withdraw. There is no loss

of honour on either side."

[Illustration: "Call off your men Captain Nairn."]

Without a moment's hesitation he rushed among them, commanding and

striking up swords right and left, while we did the same. When our

object was attained, he turned to me and said:

"Hark you, sir! I am ready enough to join in avoiding useless

slaughter, but I have an account to square with you, for which

there shall be no calling off when we meet. Remember that!"

I laughed and saluted, mightily intrigued at what his meaning might

be, and then rode off to attend on the General.

Meantime the fighting along the line had been severe, and the

enemy's artillery had told on us with such effect that at last our

centre wavered and began to give way. Supported by a wood, our

left stood firm within about twenty paces of the foe, when a flurried

adjutant ran along the line with orders to make a half-turn to the

right and retire to some houses in the rear.

M. Malartic, major of La Sarre, stood aghast; it virtually meant

retreat, and retreat in such a position invited certain destruction.

He hurried over to M. de Barroute, a captain of Bearn, which stood

next to the right, and repeated the order. They agreed at once a

mistake had been made, and an ominous murmur arose from the men as

the news was whispered from one to another. On this M. Dalquier,

their colonel, as fine and experienced an officer as ever drew

sword, rode up, and, inquiring of their difficulty, swept it aside

by crying, "I will take it upon me to disobey the order. Fix

bayonets, mes enfants!" The command was executed in an instant;

then, rising in his stirrups, he swung his sword above his head

and roared in a voice that could be heard all along the line,

"Charge!"

The effect was indescribable; there was one quick, sharp shout of

"Vive le Roi!" and the men went on like so many demons.

"Look at La Sarre!" cried Poulariez, with the Royal Roussillon on

the right, as we marked the sudden confusion and then the charge.

"The English have advanced too far! Ride to the Canadians, Maxwell!

Half-wheel to the left, and we fall on their flank!"

It was the deciding-point of the battle. The English line was thrown

into complete disorder, and thence forward there was nothing but

hand-to-hand fighting of the fiercest description, which lasted

until it ended in the utter rout of the enemy.

At one point I saw M. de Boucherville, who carried the flag of the

Montreal troops, go down in a melee, but the colours were saved by

the determined gallantry of M. de Sarennes, who carried them off

amid a storm of cheers.

"Bravo, Sarennes!" I called to him as he rode past a moment later.

"Your lady-love should have seen that!"

"Go to the devil!" he roared back at me, with the voice and gesture

of the boor he really was at bottom, but my hands were too full

either to wonder at his insult or demand an explanation.

I will make no attempt to follow the detail of the action; it is

enough to say the honours rested with us. We stood victorious over

the same foe that had defeated us on the same ground six months

before. We had regained the Heights, regained the General Hospital,

and it remained to be seen how soon we might sweep over its ruined

ramparts into Quebec and hold it once more for King Louis.

As I entered the Hospital towards evening to report to M. de Levis,

one of the sisters addressed me: "Pardon, monsieur, but are you

the Chevalier de Maxwell?"

"Yes, ma soeur."

"M. Dalquier wishes to speak with you. He lies here."

I found that fine old soldier lying on a bed faint from a wound he

had received at the very moment he made his decisive charge, but

which had not prevented him holding his place for some time later.

He smiled bravely as he held out his hand to me.

"These confounded surgeons will not allow me to speak in person,

but I wish you, Chevalier, to thank the General for me. Did you

hear about it? No? Then, listen. Just after our charge was made,

and we had formed again, he rode up. 'Here is the devil to pay,'

I said to myself, and was framing my defence in short order, when,

'M. Dalquier,' he said, so that all about could hear, 'the King

owes you his thanks for not making that half-turn. Hold your position

for five minutes, and I will answer for the battle.' Did you ever

hear anything like it? Think of a general making such an

acknowledgment, and before my men, too! Mort Dieu, Chevalier! Tell

him I would rather have this to remember than wear the Cross of

St. Louis. Go!" And he turned away his face, to hide the tears that

spake of his overwhelming satisfaction.

"I will see him as soon as I can find a moment," said M. de Levis,

when I repeated my message, almost as moved as the old soldier.

"Now, Chevalier, as soon as it falls dark, do you go over the ground

alone, and as close to the town as possible, to see what dispositions

we are to make for our trenches. Mark what Murray has attempted in

the way of defences or outworks. Let me, or M. de Pontleroy, hear

from you to-night, no matter how late the hour. But get some

refreshment before you set out," he added, thoughtful as ever of

the wants of others.

I sate down for a few moments' rest, and ate something the good

nuns provided, and then borrowing a cloak to serve as a protection

against the drizzling rain which had again set in, I sallied forth.

When I reached the Heights it was puzzlingly dark, though the hour

was early, and I had the utmost difficulty in finding my way.

Corpses of men and horses hindered me, more than once the wounded

appealed to me for help, but I went on unheeding, trying to determine

my exact whereabouts, in order to begin my task. I had approached

near enough the town to see the lights, and could even catch sounds

from the no doubt terrified population, but paid no attention to

anything save my object in hand.

Suddenly a voice shouted in the darkness, "Halte la!" to which I

promptly replied:

"Etat-major, aide de M. de Levis."

"Damn your Etat-major!" was the astonishing reply. "Why don't you

say 'Mistaire Maxwelle'?" in an undescribable attempt at an English

pronunciation of my name.

"Come, come, Sarennes," I said, for I recognised the tall Canadian,

"have you not got over your ill-humour yet? You nearly insulted me

to-day in the field."

"I intended to. Do you wish me to repeat my words, or do you not

know when you are insulted, unless you are struck?"

"Are you mad, or only drunk, Sarennes? Get back to camp, man, and

sleep off your fit. We cannot afford to quarrel after such a day

as this."

"No! you cannot afford to fight at any time. Do you think I am a

woman like her whom you deceived, to be tricked by your lying

tongue?"

"Stop, sir!" I commanded. "I am on duty, but my duty must wait

until I have read you a lesson, which, I regret, you will not live

to profit by."

We could hardly see each other, and it was utterly impossible to

follow the sword-play save by feel; it was not a duel at all; it

was death, sure and swift, for one or perhaps both of us in the

dark.

Sure and swift it was. I lost touch of his blade, and as he lunged

desperately, I avoided his stroke by dropping on my left hand, and

straightening my sword-arm _en seconde_, ran him clean through the

body as he came forward, his blade passing harmlessly over me. It

was a desperate chance to take, but the stakes were high.

I knelt beside the fallen man and spake to him, but he could not

answer, and in common humanity I rose and hurried off to find some

help.

I had not gone fifty yards before I almost ran up against a man

cautiously making his way over the field. To my astonishment, I

saw he was an officer of Fraser's Highlanders, and commanding him

to halt, I advanced, pistol in hand, and recognized Nairn.

"You are my prisoner, sir," I declared, covering him as I spake,

and then, the drollery of the situation coming over me, I dropped

my arm and said, "It seems I am in for settling accounts to-night,

Captain Nairn. You were good enough to remind me of some indebtedness

on the field to-day, though what it was I am at a loss to determine.

Perhaps it was my refusal of your handsome offer to me in Louisbourg

that I should turn traitor. No? 'Pon my soul, you are strangely

quiet in private for a gentleman who was so insistent in company!

"Come, draw the sword which you flourished to so little purpose

to-day, and you will find I can pay in the only coin a soldier

should demand or take.

"What! Not ready yet? Would you have me produce my commission as

an officer, or establish my right to arms, before you can cross

swords with me? By God, sir! I will stand no more of your precious

fooling. Do you think you are going to roar out at me in public

like some scurvy shopkeeper, and then stand like a stock-fish when

I do you the honour to ask your pleasure? Draw, sir, draw, before

I am forced to strike you like a coward!"

To my amazement, instead of answering my words as they deserved,

he threw up his hands with a weak cry and covered his face.

[Illustration: "He threw up his hands with a weak cry and

covered his face."]

Supposing him to be wounded, I melted in a moment, and, stepping

forward, held out my hand to him.

"Come, sir, come! You are unnerved. Tell me, are you hit?"

As I spake I still advanced to support him, and was surprised beyond

measure when the supposed officer retreated before me and cried,

in a voice of intense womanish entreaty, "No, no; do not touch me!"

I burst out laughing. "'Pon my soul, madam! you came near being

somewhat late, with your embargo, and you have betrayed me into an

exhibition of the vilest humour, for which I most humbly apologise."

She seemed somewhat uncertain how to take my drolling, whereupon

I changed my tone, and asked, with every appearance of curiosity,

"May I inquire how I can be of service to you?"

"Am I within the French lines?"

"No; you are on what may still be considered debatable ground. But

I cannot give information to a lady whose masquerade is at least

suspicious."

"I only ask, sir, to be taken within your lines. Will you do this

for me?"

"I doubt it, madam, unless you can show me you have good right to

be there. You are not a Frenchwoman."

"No, I am not, but I carry important information for your General."

"Pardon me, madam, but the General is fully occupied," I said, in

my most repelling manner.

"Sir, I have come thus far at great risk to myself, and my news is

of the utmost importance. Let me go on alone, if you will not take

me in yourself."

"Madam, I have not the honour to be known to you, but, believe me,

my advice is of the best when I tell you that your way is open to

the town again. Take it, madam, and think nothing more of this

escapade, but that you were fortunate to have fallen in with one

who could advise so soundly."

"This is no escapade, sir; it has been a matter of life or death

to me, and it is almost as much to your General," she said, with

such earnestness that I could not doubt her intentions.

"Then, madam, if you are determined, I will take you. You cannot

possibly go on alone; there are too many Indians engaged in their

usual pastime of looking after white scalps. But first I must seek

for help for a wounded officer, and then must complete my work.

Follow me closely, but give me your word you will not attempt any

tricks," I said; for I have never been prepossessed in favour of

adventurous damsels, and I misdoubted the value of her alleged

information.

"That will not answer. I must go on at once! I cannot wait."

"It seems to me you are hardly in a position to choose, madam," I

replied, amused at her decision.

She hesitated a moment, and then said, desperately:

"Do you know who I am, Hugh Maxwell? I am Margaret Nairn!"

Had the solid ground opened beneath my feet I could not have been

more confounded.

"Margaret!" I cried, when I could find my voice. "Margaret--here?

I cannot understand. Speak to me again!"

"Yes, Hugh, I am Margaret--Margaret Nairn. I am Mme. de St. Just."

"You have been here all along and never let me know? I cannot

understand."

"Do not try to understand now. Hugh! I beseech you to take me on

trust and help me to go on."

But as she spake I caught sight of a moving light.

"Do not speak another word. Some one is coming. Crouch down here

until I see who it is."

Advancing cautiously, I discovered the light came from a lanthorn,

by the aid of which a priest was examining the bodies, hoping, no

doubt, to discover some unfortunate who needed his ministrations.

He would serve me for Sarennes.

"Mon pere," I said, advancing, "may I beg your assistance for a

wounded officer?"

"Willingly. Lead me to him. Who is he?

"M. de Sarennes."

"Ah, I know him well."

I directed him to where Sarennes lay, and then returned to Margaret.

"I must wait until I see if anything can be done here before we

go. Come with me for a moment."

The priest took no notice of us as we knelt beside the dying man,

and Margaret, exclaiming with pity as she saw him, lifted his head

and supported it in her lap.

Sarennes opened his eyes and looked up into her face. He tried to

speak, but no sound came from his moving lips.

"Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine,

Et lux perpetua luceat ei,"

prayed the priest, and even as we responded the unhappy spirit took

its flight. Margaret bowed her head, and her tears fell on the dead

face in her lap.

Most of us have been in circumstances where the killing of a man

was a necessity, and have suffered no qualms of conscience thereat.

I certainly had no compunctions on the outcome of my meeting with

M. de Sarennes, and yet, at the sight of Margaret's tears, the

natural feelings triumphed over the intellectual, and I joined

fervently in the prayers of the priest.

He now appeared to notice Margaret for the first time, and lifting

his lanthorn, he held it so that the light shone full upon her; as

she raised her head in surprise, I could see he recognised her.

[Illustration: "Lifting his lanthorn, he held it so that the

light shone full upon her."]

"Marguerite!" he cried, in a voice of reproach.

"Why do you speak to me thus, mon pere? Why do you speak thus?"

she repeated, with alarm in her accents.

"Marguerite, is it possible you do not know me?"

"Know you? Why do you ask? Why do you call me by my name? You are

le pere Jean."

"I am le pere Jean--but I was Gaston de Trincardel!"

"What!" she cried, almost with terror, as she sprang to her feet.

"I am Gaston de Trincardel," he repeated, unmoved.

"Oh, why do you tell me this? At such a time..." she moaned, and

I stepped to her side, for her cry went to my heart.

"I tell you this because I must try to bring you to your senses.

Why are you here in disguise? A shameful disguise," he repeated,

scornfully. "Whose hand slew this man before us?"

"Mine!" I interrupted, for I could not stand by and see her meet

his attack alone.

"Why are you here beside one who may be little better than a

murderer?" he continued to her, without heeding me in the least.

"Sir, you are free to put any construction on my act you choose,

as I cannot make you answer for your words," I interrupted again.

"One from whom I have striven with all my power as a priest to keep

you?" he went on, still ignoring me. "Since that has failed, I

must try and appeal to your gratitude towards her who was your

protector when you were but a girl. In some sense I stand as her

representative, and I charge you by her memory to renounce this

last folly which has led you here."

"Stop, Gaston!" she cried. "Every word you say would be an insult

did it come from another. But I have too high a reverence for you

as a priest, the remembrance of your unfailing charity is too

strong, to answer except by an explanation. Never mind appearances!

I am here in this disguise because it afforded the only possible

escape from the town, and my object is to carry word to M. de Levis

that everything within the walls is in the most complete disorder,

the garrison is mad with drink, and he has but to march on the town

at once to effect its capture."

"Are you dreaming?--the town helpless?"

"Yes, it is his, if he can but advance without delay."

"Then, forgive me! I was wrong--a hundred times wrong!"

"Just one moment. My meeting with M. de Maxwell is as much by chance

as your meeting with me," she added, with a decision which I thought

perhaps unnecessary.

"Forgive me, Marguerite," he repeated, in his usual tone; "and you

too, Chevalier. I wronged you both. Now to make amends. Will you

lead us to the General?" he said, turning to me.

"Come," I said, and we each held out a hand to Margaret.

"Stand!" thundered a voice in English at two paces from us. "You

are all covered!"

CHAPTER XXVII

I FIND A KEY TO MY DILEMMA

"We are your prisoners!" I answered, instantly, for the slightest

hesitation on such occasions may lead to the most serious results.

Explanations can be made subsequently, but a bullet from an

over-zealous musket can never be recalled.

In an instant they were beside us, a sergeant and six men, all

Highlanders. I was about to speak again, but before I could do so

Margaret stepped up to the sergeant, and taking him by the sleeve

whispered a few words in his ear. He thereupon gave some instructions

in Gaelic to his men, who closed round me and the priest, and,

moving off a few paces with her, they spake earnestly together for

a little. What she said I do not know, but in a moment he faced

about, and picking up the lanthorn, examined me in turn.

"Your name and rank, sir?" he said to me.

"Hugh Maxwell, captain."

"God bless me, sir! But this is not the first time I have heard

your name, nor seen you, if you'll excuse my saying it," he said,

most earnestly.

"Like enough. What is your name?"

"Neil Murray, sir."

"And a very good name it is; but I cannot say I recall it."

"But you will remember the march to Derby, sir, and Lord George?"

he asked, eagerly.

"I am never likely to forget it. Were you there?"

"Where else would I be when my grandfather was own cousin to his?"

"Then I suppose there's no treason now in shaking hands over so

old a story, Neil?" I said, extending my hand, which he grasped

heartily, and relations were established between us.

He then turned to the priest. "Your name, your reverence?"

"Le pere Jean, missionary."

"Well, gentlemen, it cannot be helped. You must both follow us into

the town."

He gave his orders briefly, and blowing out the lanthorn, took

Margaret by the arm, supporting her as one might a wounded man,

and so we set off. It was evident the quick-witted sergeant possessed

that invaluable qualification of the successful soldier, the

readiness to carry out as well as to devise a plan; for in handling

the lanthorn he had never once allowed the light to fall on Margaret,

and by his happy pretence of her being wounded, he avoided the

awkward necessity of handing over the command to her as his superior.

That he would do his best to shelter her from any scrutiny or

questioning was evident, and I was too thankful for the result to

puzzle over the probable means by which it was attained. As like

as not, by the very simple expedient of telling the truth--a

wonderfully efficacious measure at times, when you know your man.

A quick, hard scramble brought us down to the level of the Palais;

we passed the Intendance, black and deserted, and so on towards

the foot of the Cote du Palais. When we reached the gate the

sergeant halted us; the sign and countersign were given, whereupon

the wicket was opened.

Passing his arm about Margaret, who leaned upon him heavily, the

sergeant skilfully interposed himself between her and the officer

in charge, and gave his report: "Neil Murray, sergeant, 78th, six

men, two prisoners, and one of our own, wounded," and on we marched

up the slippery hill without a moment's unnecessary delay.

As soon as we were beyond sight of the gate our pace was slackened,

and, now that all immediate danger of discovery for Margaret was

at an end, I fell to wondering at the extraordinary chance which

again brought me face to face with her who had proved the

turning-point in my life. Little by little I pieced out the puzzle,

and the more I brought it together, the more I wondered, but in a

vague, disjointed fashion, that led to no solution. My confused

thoughts were interrupted by our party halting in front of the

Convent of the Ursulines, where, to my relief, I saw the sergeant

lead Margaret round towards the side entrance.

"May I ask where you are taking us?" I said, when we again began

our march, putting the question more to set my mind working again

than out of curiosity.

"Where else would we be going but to the General?"

"And where has he found quarters in this stone heap? You have made

a fine mess of things with your battering," I said, for the evidence

of their fire on the town was surprising.

"Have we not!" he exclaimed, with true soldierly pride. "But there

will be a corner or two, here and there, that was out of our reach.

It was a God's mercy for ourselves that we didn't have our will of

the whole town, or there's many a poor fellow would have made a

bad winter of it."

"I dare say you found it bad enough as it was, eh, Neil?"

"You may say that, sir! There's been a deal to put up with for both

high and low. But here we will be at the General's."

As he spake we drew up before a house in the rue St. Louis, and

were ushered into an anteroom, where we were left under guard,

while our conductor departed to make his report.

I was not permitted to speak with my fellow-prisoner, and so went

back to my wonderings. It was Margaret--that is, Mme. de St.

Just--who had befriended Lucy on shipboard, and protected her since.

What a marvellous happening, that these two women, of all others

in the world, should have thus been thrown together! That she now

knew of my relation towards Lucy I could not doubt; and though I

had preferred it might have come about otherwise, I bitterly

reflected that an estimate of my character was no longer of supreme

importance to her, now she was a married woman. Though I had been

doing my utmost all these years of exile to school myself to a

frame of mind in which I might look upon her as unapproachable for

me, now that I found an insurmountable barrier existed, not of my

own raising, with the inconsistence of mankind, I straight rebelled

against it. What a climax to every irony of fate! To find myself

free, and she, whom I had so hopelessly loved, another's. Yet what

did the priest mean when he said he had been trying to keep me from

her? I looked across the room at his impassive face, and felt I

would give much for five minutes alone with him. Then an explanation

would be forthcoming in some shape.

From this coil I was aroused by the entrance of an officer to summon

us into the presence of the General, and for the first time I

considered my personal situation. Not that I had anything to fear,

for, in those days, war was a profession, and an officer was treated

as a gentleman by his opponent once active hostilities ceased, or

were even suspended; but the consequence of my capture would

certainly mean for me the loss of any advantage I might otherwise

have gained from our success. Now my name would figure in no

despatches, unless as "missing," a bitter disappointment, when I

had so slowly and painfully gained something of a position. But I

had no time to reason it out before we had crossed the threshold

of the General's room.

He was a clear-featured, bright-eyed man of thirty-five or forty,

visibly harassed with the hard fortune of the day, but he did not

allow his preoccupation to affect his bearing towards us.

"Reverend sir," he said, addressing the priest, "I take it for

granted you are a non-combatant, but as it has fallen to your lot

to be brought within our lines, you must perforce remain a prisoner.

If you will satisfy me as to your name and position, I shall judge

if I can grant you the less galling restrictions of parole."

[Illustration: "I take it for granted you are a non-combatant."]

The priest smiled. "I appreciate the reasonableness of the condition,

your Excellency. My full name is Jean Marie Gaston de Caldegues,

Vicomte de Trincardel, but for years I have borne none other than

'le pere Jean, missionary to the Indians.'"

"That is perfectly satisfactory, sir. I shall be pleased to allow

you parole within the walls, only restricting you from approaching

those parts of the town where our defences are now placed. I shall

give you an order for quarters at the Ursulines, though doubtless

the good ladies would readily receive you even without my

introduction." As he spake he accompanied the priest to the door,

where he gave his instructions to an aide in waiting.

He then turned to me and extended his hand. "Chevalier, we have

already had the pleasure of some slight correspondence."

"I have to thank your Excellency for as great a courtesy as one

man can shew towards another. When I wrote, I ventured to mention

my acquaintance with your Excellency's brother, Lord Elibank, not

that I relied on anything else than your Excellency's natural

sensibility for the acceptance of my request, but that I might in

that manner help to establish my identity."

"Believe me, Chevalier," he returned, with emphasis, "that was

totally unnecessary. I was quite aware that you were in Canada. A

man does not easily slip out of sight so long as he remains among

his own class."

"Your Excellency overwhelms me; such a recognition goes far to make

up for the years of disappointment I have endured."

"Then let us speak plainly, without further compliments on either

side," he said, smiling gravely.

"Nothing could please me better, your Excellency."

"It will not even be necessary to keep up the 'Excellency.' I shall

call you Kirkconnel, after the good homely Scots' fashion, if you

have not forgotten."

"Forgotten! That is one of the curses of my Scotch blood. I cannot

forget!"

"Then there is hope for you yet, Kirkconnel! For you have something

behind you worth remembering."

"I cannot say it oppresses me with any great sense of obligation,

for I would find some difficulty in naming it at the moment."

"Tut, tut, man!" he exclaimed, heartily. "Don't tell me that a man

who played his part as well as you in '45 need mourn over it."

"We're getting out towards the thin ice now, are we not, General?"

"Not for me; though I dare say some members of my house might have

to guard their steps more carefully. But to go on: you followed

what you and your forbears held to be The Cause, and to which you

held your honour pledged, and you saw it through to the bitter end.

Then, instead of mixing yourself up in a miserable farrago of

pot-house plots and chamber-mysteries which have only served to

turn some honest men into rogues, you have acted like a soldier,

and done only a soldier's work. And, best of all, you have succeeded.

You have much that is worth remembering, Kirkconnel!"

"Your Excellency is most kind."

"I prefer to be plain. Why not drop this whole business?"

"How can I? You would not urge me to come over because I happen to

be a prisoner to-day? I may be exchanged to-morrow."

"That you shall not, I'll answer for it! I have no intention to

give M. de Levis the assistance of even one more artillery officer,

if I can help it. No, no! I shall keep you fast while I can, but

'tis only in the event of my holding the winning cards in this

affair that I would urge you to send in your submission and take

your place beside us, your natural comrades, where you belong.

What chance of promotion, or even of recognition, will you run, if

M. de Levis has to leave Canada in our hands?"

"None whatever. I have never deceived myself for a moment on that

point."

"Then be sensible, and, like a sensible man, make a sensible move

when the time comes!" he exclaimed, with the greatest good feeling.

"I am afraid I am too old a fool to be sensible at any time on such

a subject. But I thank your Excellency from the bottom of my heart,"

I returned, as warmly.

"Nonsense, man! I would not have spoken had I not been taken with

you. But there! I am not a recruiting officer," he said, with a

laugh. "Think well over what I have said; I am not pressing for an

answer." Thereupon he turned the subject, and we fell into a

conversation over the events of the past summer and winter. I

answered such questions as I could in regard to our present position,

for there was no advantage to be gained by undue concealment, and

his consideration spared me any embarrassment.

When our interview ended he thanked me very handsomely, and regretted

he could not offer me the hospitality of his own roof, but provided

for me in the Ursulines, granting me the same parole as the priest.

"You will find among your countrymen an odd rebel here and there,

Kirkconnel; but I rely on you to stir up no fresh treason with

'White Cockades,' or 'Bonnie Charlies,' or any other of the old

shibboleths."

"Have no anxieties on that score, your Excellency; I have had too

rude an awakening ever to fall a-dreaming again. 'The burnt child.'"

And I bowed, and left in company with the officer told off to see

to my reception.

The General's unlooked-for sympathy had gone far to restore me to

my natural bearing for the moment. It is flattering to any man to

be received by his military superior as a social equal, and Heaven

forbid that I should pretend to a susceptibility less than the

ordinary. I was greatly pleased, therefore, by his recognition,

and to my admiration of his soldierly qualities was now added a

warm appreciation of his interest in me and my fortunes. But no

personal gratification could long blind me to the misery of my real

position. Chance, inclination, and, I think I may honestly add,

principle, had kept my affections disengaged and, my heart whole,

without any reasonable expectation of ever realising my life's

desire, and now I had stumbled upon it, only to find it inexorably

withheld from me, and every avenue to its attainment closed. Could

I have gone on to the end without actually meeting with Margaret,

I could have borne it with the silent endurance which had supported

me so far, and had, in large measure, become a habit; but now every

regret, every passionate longing, every haunting memory which time

had lulled into seeming slumber, awoke to wring my heart at the

very moment when I believed the bitterness to have passed forever.

The first to welcome me at the convent was my son Kit. Heavens!

how tall and well-looking the boy had grown, and with what feeling

did I take him in my arms. He returned my embrace with equal

affection, and when we settled down, spake of his mother's death

with much natural feeling.

Poor Lucy! She had had a narrow life of it with the exception of

the year we had lived together. What a light-hearted, merry little

soul she then was! She had no education in the general sense, but

was possessed of so lively a sympathy that she entered into all

that appealed to me with an enjoyment and an appreciation that no

mere learning could have supplied. She may have lacked the bearing

and carriage of a great lady, but what stateliness of manner can

rival the pretty softnesses of a gentle girl wholly in love. She

was not strictly beautiful, but she had the charm of constant

liveliness, and her unfailing content and merriment more than made

up for any irregularity in feature. This was the woman I had left,

and I have already told what she was when I returned. It was not

so much her nature that was at fault, poor thing! as the atrophy

of soul resulting from an ungenerous form of religion.

I cannot but think it safer for both man and woman to continue in

those religions which have received the sanction of authority, than

take up with any new ventures, no matter what superior offers of

salvation they may hold out. And the first step towards this

dangerous ground I believe to be that pernicious habit of idle

speculation on subjects too sacred for open discussion, which might

well be left to their ordained guardians, and not to the curious

guessings of simple and unsophisticated minds.

Kit had much information to give touching others in whom I was

interested. Of Mme. de St. Just he spake, as I would have expected,

with the warmest admiration and gratitude; but after he had informed

me that she was an inmate of the same convent in which we were, I

turned the conversation towards her brother, who, I learned, was

wounded sufficiently to be under the surgeon's care, and was pleased

to gather that Master Kit had made a respectable showing for himself

in the rescue of his Captain. That Mademoiselle de Sarennes was

much concerned in Nairn's condition I was glad to hear, as such an

interest could not fail to be of service when she should learn of

her brother's fate, of which I took care to make no mention, as I

had no desire to figure as the bearer of what must, to her, prove

painful tidings.

"Your Captain is fortunate to engage the sympathies of so fair an

enemy," was my only remark.

"Why, father, we do not look on them as enemies at all!" he returned,

with the ingenuousness of his years.

"Look you here, Master Kit, I cannot have you calling me 'father';

it has altogether too responsible a sound, and I do not wish to

begin and bring you to book for matters which may, later on, call

for a parent's judgment. Call me 'Chevalier,' if you like, it is

more companionable, and it is as comrades you and I must live,

unless you wish to have me interfering with you in a manner you

might naturally enough resent later on. I love you heartily my boy,

and it is love, not authority, I wish to be the bond between us.

What do you say yourself?"

"It can never be anything less than that, sir; you know how I was

drawn to you that very first morning, when I entered your room in

Wych Street; you were the finest gentleman I had ever seen."

"Well, you have seen better since, Kit."

"None better to me, sir." And he added, hurriedly, as if to cover

his emotion, "Will you come over to us, now that we are victorious?"

"Oh, Kit, Kit, you are a true Englishman! Victorious! Why, great

Heavens! We beat you fifty times over, only to-day! Not that it

will make any great matter in the long run, perhaps, for it is no

question of a single battle for either Levis or Murray, it is the

arrival of the first ships which will decide this affair. Wait

until they come up, and then it will be time enough to talk of

victory."

The lad's face fell. "I mean for ourselves," he said, wistfully;

"this can't go on with us on different sides."

"That is a serious matter for the principals, no doubt, Kit; but

we need not worry over it, for I am not likely to be exchanged,

the way things now are."

"But when it is decided?"

"Your way, Kit?"

"I mean _if_ it is decided our way," he corrected. "You will come

back?"

"Come back to what? You forget I am still a proscribed rebel with

a price on my head."

"But that is long past."

"So Dr. Archie Cameron thought, but they hanged him like a dog not

so many years ago, and I do not know that he was deeper in the

affair than I. That I am not a very ardent rebel, I will confess;

but I have grown too old in rebellion to shift my character readily.

Besides, I fancy I am more of a Frenchman than an Englishman, or

even a Scotchman; and the worst of such a transmogrification is,

that one grows used to it, and change becomes wellnigh impossible.

But you have chosen wisely, my boy. I wouldn't have you different

for the world!"

"It is not for myself I speak. I am thinking of you, sir."

"God bless you, Kit! I would rather have those words from you than

a free pardon. And now good-night, or rather, good-day. You have

your duties before you, and I must get some sleep;" and I embraced

the generous boy with a full heart.

The next afternoon I set out to look over the town and mark the

effect of the English fire during the bombardment, and could not

but admire how destructive it had been, nor withhold my approval

of the efforts the garrison had put forth during the past winter

to repair the results of their own handiwork.

As I wandered round the Cape I caught sight of le pere Jean leaning

against the parapet of la batterie du Clerge, gloomily surveying

the dismal prospect of a river full of drifting ice and a desolate

and half-frozen country beyond.

He turned as I approached, and greeted me with a return of the

manner that was once habitual with him. "I was glad to hear you

found friends last night, Chevalier."

"Thank you, yes. I found friends both new and old," I answered,

glancing at him curiously.

But he had turned towards the river again, and waved his hand

outward. "This is all emblematic of our fortress, I fear

--dissolution," he said, wearily.

"One might descant on the promise of spring and the renewal of

hope, but in reality I gather as little from the prospect as you

do," I returned. And side by side we leaned over the parapet, and

continued to indulge our cheerless speculations in silence.

"Chevalier," said the priest, suddenly, but in his usual tone, and

without changing his position, "perhaps I owe you a more formal

apology than was possible last night; but when I found that

Mademoiselle Nairn--"

"Mme. de St. Just," I corrected.

"It is scarce worth while to keep up that fiction between us," he

said, as if waiving the most ordinary form in the world, and in

some manner I checked the cry of astonishment that was on my lips,

and remained silent while he continued. "When I found Mademoiselle

Nairn in your company, I too hastily assumed that it was by design

on your part."

I was so bewildered by this unconscious revelation that I could

make no reply; but, fortunately, he did not mark my agitation, and

went on as though speaking to himself: "Right or wrong, I have been

the means of keeping her from you thus far; and if I have sinned

in so doing, I must bear the consequence."

As he spake he turned and faced me, but by this I had recovered

command of myself, and saw that his thin face was flushed and drawn

with suffering. "Let me go on," he said, with decision. "I owe an

explanation to myself as well as to you."

Just what he said I cannot clearly recall. The revelation he had

made was so astounding, had so completely changed the whole complexion

of my outlook, that my brain could scarce apprehend the import of

his words. I only realised that Margaret was no longer beyond my

reach. The rest mattered not one whit.

When he ceased speaking, I briefly exposed what had been my position

throughout, without reserve or argument, leaving it to him to draw

his own conclusion.

"Chevalier," cried the priest, heartily, as I ended, "I feel that

any apology would be frivolous in the face of what you have told

me, but I can assure you no man was ever more satisfied to find

himself in the wrong than I."

"I take that as more than any apology," I returned, as sincerely.

"But to return to Sarennes. What use did he make of my letter?"

"He attempted such a use that the outcome of your meeting with him

is fully justified."

"It was justified as it was!" I objected. "I do not fight on trifles.

Do you mean, he tried to persuade Margaret that it referred to

her?"

"He did. And though I was enabled to save her from personal danger,

I could do nothing to relieve the distress he had wrought by these

means."

"The hound! It would have been a satisfaction to have known this

when I met him."

"Remember, though, it is entirely owing to the loyalty of his mother

and sister that her position here has been possible."

"That is true; but I see as clearly, that her reception by them

was only possible through your answering for her. I owe you

everything."

"You owe me much," he said, quietly, as if to himself. And at the

simple words of self-abnegation my heart ached at the thought of

the pain I had involuntarily caused.

"I am sorry for any family that holds so black a sheep as Sarennes,"

I said, to break the awkward pause that followed.

"His family need know nothing, beyond that he died on the field of

battle, a much more desirable fate than he was likely to meet with

in France, had he lived; for, believe me, information has gone

forward that will insure the trial and, I trust, the punishment of

every peculator who has helped to ruin this miserable colony, no

matter which way the present crisis may turn."

"Now that we have confidence in each other, may I ask why you never

let me know of your presence in Canada?"

"To be frank, I had no desire to awaken old associations. So far

as I knew the past was a book that had been read and done with.

Nothing was to be gained by reopening it under the same conditions,

and I had no reason to suppose they could be altered. Remember it

is only now my eyes have been opened, and I see the error of my

warped and ignorant judgment. We have travelled a long road,

Chevalier, to meet in friendship, and I am glad we can so meet at

last. I always regret when my feeling towards an honourable man

cannot go beyond mere liking."

"Gaston," I cried, "I never received so handsome a compliment in

all my life!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

I MAKE A FALSE MOVE

I can make no pretence to marshal the train of thought that swept

through my brain when the priest took his way and left me to myself.

Engrossed as I was with my own affairs, I could not but speculate

on the curious chance that had driven him into a life of renunciation

and me to one of exile at the same time and for the same cause,

and that now brought us together before the woman we both loved.

I use the word advisedly and without any reflection on his integrity;

but it would be an insult to my intelligence could I look on his

face, worn by suffering and emotion, and mark the tone of his voice,

and, most confirmatory of all, the jealous care with which he

avoided any mention of her name, and not acknowledge the presence

there of the gentlest passion that ever refined the soul of man.

He had found abundant opportunity for self-denial and sacrifice in

the career he had chosen, but I doubted if he had found either

peace or entire resignation. During his interview with General

Murray, and especially during his familiar talk with me, I had

caught a dozen reflections of his old bearing and manner, and I

could not believe he had laid aside all human longings and emotions,

however he might refuse to recognise them, when he doffed the

outward habit of his class for the soutane and shovel hat of the

Jesuit. It were childish to think so.

Thus occupied I sate heedless of the hours that went by, until

chilled by the change of the day to evening. As I moved slowly

towards my quarters, the only result of the hours of solitary

thought that remained by me, was that Margaret was unmarried, and

that she had come out to meet with me and for this alone.

That same evening I paid my respects to the Superior, la mere do

la Nativite, a well-bred woman, who should have graced the world

rather than a convent, and to her I proffered my request that I

might be allowed to wait upon Mme. de St. Just.

"Most certainly, monsieur, if it be her desire. She is a guest to

whom we owe much. If you will permit, I will send and inquire."

In a few moments the sister sent returned with word that Mme. de

St. Just would see the Chevalier de Maxwell at eleven the next

morning.

"Very well, monsieur, you may then meet her here in the parlour,"

added the Superior, pleasantly, and I bowed my thanks and withdrew.

I spent the night in great unrest, inventing imaginary difficulties

when I overthrew those which really existed, picturing the expected

interview in a thousand forms, framing and reframing every appeal

I should make, and so wore out the night in a fever of consuming

anticipation.

I was thankful I had been captured while on staff duty; for I had

ever made it a practice to dress myself with the most scrupulous

attention when going into action, so that death himself might not

find me unprepared--and, thanks to this, I was now enabled to make

a fitting appearance.

The feeling that I was outwardly prepared went far to reassure me,

and when the time came for my meeting I had banished my uneasy

apprehensions of the night, and recovered my habitual confidence.

My sole anxiety was, lest I should fail in conveying an adequate

impression of my appreciation of her sacrifice and undertaking for

my sake, but when I saw her every doubting fled.

I do not know how she was dressed, beyond that it served but to

heighten her queenly beauty; which, rare as I remembered it, had

now grown and developed beyond all my faint conceptions. Her amber

hair had deepened into the richest auburn, its colour was undisguised

by powder, and its abundance undistorted by the art of the

hair-dresser. Her eyes were steady, and clear, and truthful; every

line of her face had rounded out the promise of her youth, and her

shape and carriage were divine. She moved like a goddess.

"Margaret," I said, as I advanced towards her, forgetting all the

openings I had so carefully rehearsed, "I can scarce believe I am

awake. It seems incredible I should speak face to face with you

here."

"It is indeed a strange meeting," she returned. The words were

nothing, but they were spoken in a tone of perfect quiet and control,

without any trace of the emotion that broke my voice and dissipated

my self-possession.

"It is a meeting for which I have dreamed, but tried not to hope,"

I said, with much feeling.

"And I had lived for nothing else," she returned, with unfaltering

voice and the same absence of emotion.

"Then, Margaret, it has come at last!" I cried, joyously, the

temporary cloud passing as she spake.

"No, it has not!" she said, with the coldest decision, and, with

that incongruity of thought which springs upon us at the most

inopportune moments, I wondered if every woman for whom I cared

was to change her whole nature, the moment I left her side. I

remembered Lucy, and now here was Margaret, whom I had known as

the embodiment of impulsive affection, fencing with a coolness that

enforced my admiration. I saw she had fully prepared herself, and

instantly I resolved to change my ground.

"Margaret," I said, falling back on the most unstudied tones at my

command, "it was only yesterday I learned from Gaston the true

reason of your presence here. We have both suffered too cruelly

from the accidents of the past to risk any misunderstanding now

for the want of perfect openness between us."

"That is what I desire above all things in the world," she answered.

"Then let us begin at the beginning. Why was it you never let me

know of your plan?"

"I do not hold that any explanation is due on my part," she replied,

still in the same tone of self-possession. "Remember I did not

seek this interview, and I do not see that you have any right to

question me on matters which concern only myself."

"Great heavens; Margaret! Can anything concern you and not touch

me?"

"Once I believed it could not. I am older now."

"How can you speak thus coldly?" I cried, shocked at her incredible

calm. "If there is anything I can do or say, for Heaven's sake,

demand it. You cannot know what torture it is for me to see you

like this. I have dreamed of you, longed for you, despaired of you

through all these years, and I have a right to a different treatment.

Is it on account of Lucy?"

"Partly," she answered, somewhat moved. "Why did you never tell me

of her?"

"How could I?"

"There was nothing dishonourable about it."

"A thing does not need to be dishonourable to be ruinous. The

dishonour would have been in my speaking when I was pledged to

silence."

"Was it more honourable, think you, to allow a young girl to live

in a world of mock affection, and to expose her to what I have gone

through?"

"But did I ever by word or sign make the slightest move to engage

your affections, after I discovered the truth?"

"Pardon me, if I say that question could only serve to embarrass

a child. I will answer it by another. Does a man need to speak to

declare his love?"

"No, by heavens, he does not, Margaret!" I cried, throwing all

defence to the winds. "It speaks in every tone of his voice, in

every glance of his eye, and I would be a hypocrite beneath contempt

were I to pretend I did not always love you. I loved you from the

moment I first saw you, a girl, before Temple Bar, and I will love

you, God help me, till I die!"

"If this be the case, then, had I not a higher claim on you than

any woman living? Were you not bound to protect me against my

ignorance of such a barrier?"

"Absence, and I had hoped forgetfulness, would prove your best

protection," I replied, with happy inspiration.

"The implication is skilful," she said, quietly, without a trace

of the emotion I expected from my allusion, "but no mistake on my

part can serve to lessen your want of good faith towards me. Do

you think a woman would have considered any point of personal honour

where the life of one dearest to her hung on her sacrifice?"

"It is quite beyond my poor powers to judge of what a woman might

do." I replied, with a sudden rash indiscretion. "I find I have

but little knowledge of women or the motives which sway them."

"Then there is but little to be gained by continuing this

conversation," she returned, with a stately bow, and swept out of

the room, leaving me to curse the folly that had betrayed me into

so false a move. And with this bitter morsel for reflection I sought

my solitary room.

Nothing in the world, short of actual dishonour, can cause a man

of sensibility keener suffering than the knowledge that he has made

a fool of himself. This I had done to the top of my bent. Why had

I not apprehended the effective point of attack from the outset,

and, instead of attempting any defence, thrown myself on her

compassion and generosity? Why had I not...? But it were futile to

reiterate the charges I brought against my own folly.

What was the support on which she relied? If her brother--then I

regretted from the bottom of my heart I had missed the occasion of

squaring that account of which he had spoken. If a man at all, it

was he; for the woman who had so discomfited me was heart-whole I

could swear; a defiant modesty rang in every note of her voice.

Possibly the convent, that fallacious sanctuary for disappointment.

But if I knew anything of her sex, she was the last to whom such

a retreat could bring satisfaction. Heavens! It was a coil involved

enough to drive a man wellnigh distracted.

Dinner, and the intercourse it entailed, did much to restore me to

my ordinary bearing, and when Kit sought me in the afternoon, with

a polite request from his Captain that I would wait upon him when

at leisure, I had quite recovered. Nothing could have fallen out

more to my liking; I was anxious to discover his cause of quarrel

with me, and, if possible, to arrive at some solution of Margaret's

attitude. So I followed Kit to his room at once.

Nairn I found a trifle pale, with a well-bandaged head, but his

welcome was open and unconstrained, and his greeting met me at the

threshold. As I advanced to return it, I caught the flutter of a

dress out of the opposite door, which informed me that his sufferings

were not without certain consolations.

I took the hand extended to me with the same heartiness as it was

offered.

"Will you accept a broken man's apology for a whole man's insult,

Chevalier? I have promised my sister that I would make you this

reparation, and I am heartily glad we can return to our old footing

of Louisbourg."

"Readily, Nairn. I have seen your sister this morning, and I cannot

blame your action. I might have done the same myself. Let us say

no more about it."

"With all my heart! Well, Chevalier, the fortune of war has reversed

our personal positions from Louisbourg, but I do not see that the

end is much more certain now than then."

"Much the same," I answered; "the result altogether depends on the

first ships."

"And I suppose you abide by it as before?"

"I must, Nairn. We need not reopen that subject."

"I only mention it, because I am anxious about the future of your

boy, Christopher. I congratulate you on finding such a son. Will

you understand me, if I say I trust you have not thought of

influencing him to leave our service, though I could not blame you

wishing him beside you."

"Nairn, I owe you my thanks for having broached the subject. I have

been too dependent on my own exertions all my life to make me a

good beggar, even for my son. When in Louisbourg you expressed

yourself as under some obligation towards me. Will you discharge

it by using your best endeavours for his advancement? He is too

good metal to waste as a common soldier."

"He is that! And if you allow him to remain, I pledge my word he

shall not continue as such. It may sound presumptions in a mere

captain to promise so confidently, but if we come out of this

successfully, promotions will follow. He has been most favourably

marked by the General, and also by our Colonel."

"Let me see; he is a son of old Lovat, is he not?"

"That he is, and in more ways than one."

"If he be like his sainted father, he will have a longer memory

for his own interests than those of his friends."

"This is rank treason, Chevalier. I won't listen to another word

of it," said Nairn, laughing. "But I am depending on the General,

he never forgets any one, I can tell you, too," he added, eagerly,

"he is a stickler for birth, and he will appreciate the fact of

Christopher being your son."

"That is a rare advantage!" I said, banteringly.

"Of course it is! Would you not value a good horse the more if you

knew his pedigree?" he answered, without the ghost of a smile.

"Oh, come, come, Nairn! You must not attempt flattery, it has too

overwhelming an effect. But, tell me--in what manner did you meet

with your sister again?" I ventured boldly, knowing there was

nothing to be gained by a subtler policy with him.

"Simple enough. She was in the General Hospital when I was placed

in command there, and very pleased I was to find her," he answered,

as though the meeting were the most ordinary affair in the world,

his tone clearly indicating that he had concluded the matter, and

did not intend to reopen it.

"I should apologise for having frightened her away as I came in,"

I continued, feeling for another opening; but he feigned ignorance

of my move, and explained in the most natural manner--"Oh, that

was not my sister, but a very good friend of hers, to whom we are

both indebted for many kindnesses."

"Ah, that is much. I trust she appreciates your gratitude in your

allowing her to nurse you?"

"Not at all; I do not think she looks upon it in that way. I believe

there are some women who love the bother of looking after you. I

try to give her as little trouble as I can," he ended, with a catch

in his voice.

"Nairn, you are a gentleman! Forgive my humbugging."

"I didn't know you were, or I shouldn't have been so simple as to

answer you. Do you know, I've often wished I could tell when a man

is in earnest. I'm no good at guessing what his intent may be unless

he has a sword in his hand; and as for a woman, I can never tell

at all."

"You're no worse off than the best of us, in that respect, Nairn.

Some day I trust some good woman will engage you in dead earnest,

and then the quicker you surrender at discretion the better. And

for your sake, I hope the day will come soon."

"I don't know, I'm sure," he answered, in so woe-begone a tone that

I left him, convinced his enemy had already been making serious

advances, and that his defence was likely to be as feeble as his

most ardent well-wisher could desire.

I discovered my ex-Jacobite sergeant to be as matter-of-fact as

his captain. He would discuss military matters freely enough, but

on the subject of our night's adventure I could not get him to

advance a word. _Exempli gratia_ "Neil, how is the officer you

assisted on the field the other night?"

"Indeed, Captain, you must go away in and ask for yourself."

"You are not uneasy as to his hurt proving dangerous?"

"Not half as dangerous as undigested catechising, sir, saving your

presence, and meaning no offence."

And in the face of so diplomatic a rebuke I would abandon the

subject and fall back on the safer ground of mines and countermines,

carcasses and grenadoes.

I made no attempt to see Margaret, for I felt I would be foolish

to risk another rebuff, which might be final, and that my best play

was a waiting game. My reflections had been bitter; possibly hers

would be generous.

The garrison was fully occupied, for M. de Levis had made such

advances to invest the town as to call for constant watchfulness.

His fire throughout had necessarily been light, as he was wretchedly

supplied with artillery, but he succeeded in blowing up one of the

magazines the very first night, and there were the usual number of

casualties. General Murray, on his part, attempted one sortie, but

as it was unsuccessful, and the officer in command captured, he

thereafter held himself strictly on the defensive. No general attack

was attempted on our side, and wisely too; for even the capture of

the town would avail nothing, if the first reinforcements by sea

were not ours.

I passed my time making further acquaintance with Kit, whose eager

affection went far to relieve my melancholy, in a few visits of

courtesy to various officers, and in renewing my friendship with

Gaston and with Nairn.

Each day, as I visited the latter towards eleven o'clock, I was

treated to the same disappearing flutter of what I did not doubt

was the same petticoat, until at length I became piqued.

"Nairn," I declared, "I must either give up visiting you, or you

must persuade that timid lady-in-waiting that I am not to be run

away from with impunity. Either she must remain in her place

to-morrow, or I cease disturbing her."

"Indeed, that is what I have been doing my best to persuade her,

but she is somewhat shy until a little matter of difference between

us is settled."

"What, Nairn! Is it possible you have already met the fair one

strong in fight, of whom I prophesied?"

"Yes, I suppose so," he said, with a happy laugh. "I may as well

tell you. She is Mademoiselle de Sarennes. The only thing that

troubles me is, that she wishes to leave the matter to chance."

"I congratulate you on the lady, first of all, sir. And now, what

are the chances?"

He moved uneasily. "Just a woman's fancy, I suppose; but she wishes

it to depend on the arrival of the ships."

"What! Are those fateful ships to carry the decisions of Cupid as

well as Mars? What part are they to play in your affairs?"

"Part enough. If a French ship arrives first, she marries me; if

an English, then I marry her."

"Good heavens, Nairn! What an anxiety to have hanging over you!

Have you provided against the possible appearance of a Spaniard?"

"None of your nonsense, Chevalier!" he exclaimed, hotly. "This is

no jesting matter for me. Cannot you take anything seriously? I

conceive it to make all the difference in the world, whether the

man take the woman, or the woman the man. I hate turning things

upside-down, and, if I marry at all, I must do so in a decent,

orderly way, like my fathers before me."

"That is all very well, but shouldn't you allow the lady some

choice, especially if you should turn out to be a prisoner, as will

certainly be the case should a French ship appear first?"

"But why not let me exercise the choice? I have my feelings as well

as a woman," he returned, stubbornly.

"That is conceivable, or you would never have advanced as far as

your present difficulty. But I think this is a matter which can be

arranged with a little diplomacy."

"Then there's little hope for it if the diplomacy rests with me,

for I've no more of it about me than a brass carronade."

"Never mind. You can safely depend for that upon the lady. In the

mean time, pray present her with my compliments and congratulations

on so ingenious a shifting of responsibility, and remind her that

I expect to pay her my respects on the morrow."

But on the morrow I did not keep my appointment. About ten o'clock

that morning, as I was with General Murray, chatting over the fire

in his quarters in the rue St. Louis, we were interrupted by an

aide, who entered in great excitement.

"Your Excellency, a ship is in sight from the lookout!"

"Good heavens, Kirkconnel! This decides it!" exclaimed the General,

rising, and generously extending to me his hand. "God bless you,

whichever it be!" he added, heartily, and we parted.

In all haste I made my way to the Chateau and gained such point of

vantage as was possible. I eagerly scanned every foot of the river,

but there was nothing I could make out, though from the excitement

of the little knot at the signalling-point above it was evident

they could sight her.

In an incredibly short time every available foothold was occupied.

Men, women, and children, soldiers and sailors, sick and sound,

flocked to the ramparts to strain their eyes for the reported sail.

Suddenly a cheer arose from the crowd, and all hearts leaped in

response. No--it was but a sailor climbing the flag-staff on the

Cape to bend new cordage for the colours, and presently they were

unrolled and spread out on the sharp May wind. With every moment

the crowd increased; the wounded even left their beds at the news,

and painfully crawled to have the sooner tidings.

At length her top-sails shone white over the bare trees of St.

Joseph. Inch by inch they grew, until the vessel swam clear of the

point. A frigate! A man-of-war! And, at the sight, the crowd,

French and English alike, set up a shout, though as yet neither

knew the message she would soon send flying from her halyards.

On she came, and, the first burst of excitement stilled, we hung

on her every movement in a silence that was almost painful. At

length a gasp ran through the crowd. Against her white sails a

black spot could be distinctly seen running swiftly up to the

masthead. No sooner did it touch it than it broke, and the white

field barred by the red cross of St. George streamed forth to our

waiting eyes.

A perfect scream of shouts and cheers answered the declaration.

Men swore and blasphemed in their joy, some shrieked and laughed

in hysterical excitement, while others broke down and wept like

children at the sight of their deliverance.

Before long the frigate's sides were swathed in smoke, and her guns

thundered their proud salute against the swarming cliff, while

frantic groups ran through the town shouting the news, until, from

the line of defences opposite the Heights, the artillery boomed

forth in one long, continuous roar its message of exultation and

defiance to the gallant Levis and his men, to whom it meant

irretrievable failure and despair.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to meet the pale face of

Gaston.

"This is the end!" he said, with tears in his eyes.

CHAPTER XXIX

I PUT MY FORTUNE TO THE TOUCH

On that 9th of May which saw the _Lowestaffe_ anchor in Quebec to

practically settle the fortunes of France and England in the New

World, as I walked back along the rue St. Louis arm in arm with

Gaston, neither of us speaking a word, I determined that now the

time had come to put my fortune to the touch; and as soon as possible

I sent word to Margaret, praying I might be granted an interview,

and in a state of anxiety, not far removed from panic, I awaited

her answer.

She would see me at once, and I repaired to the parlour where to

me she entered, pale and dignified, the nobility of her soul shewing

forth in every movement of her body, and its beauty in every line

of her face.

"Margaret," I cried, "forgive me, if I have forced myself upon you,

but I have no courage to endure longer. You have heard that all

hope for the French arms is now virtually at an end, and I must

know what lies before me."

"That must rest with you," she answered, in the same calm tone

which had so upset me in our last meeting.

"Then, Margaret, I am here to plead my own cause," I answered,

firmly, determined not to be swayed by any passing mood, "and I

plead _in forma pauperis_, for I have no one to rely on save myself,

and no hope save in you."

"You must not count upon me," she returned, calmly. "I cannot

acknowledge that you have any claim upon me."

"I have the claim which comes from your own affection, Margaret.

You loved me once, and in the strength of that love I stand to-day.

In the name of that love I ask you to hear me."

"That is a thing of the past. You have no right to presume upon it

now."

"Is it presumption for one who has lived in such loneliness as I,

to hold to the one bright day of his life? There is no past for

the heart."

"I will not argue the point," she answered, coldly; "but there is

a past I have shut out of mine."

"You may try to persuade yourself you have, Margaret, but it will

come back when you think it most banished. I know of what I speak,

for when I thought I had buried a past that was torture to me to

recall, it has awakened me to nights of hopeless regrets and empty

longings; it has stood beside me, unsummoned, when most alone, and

has started into life at some chance word or token, when in company.

The more you try to live it down, the more you create a haunting

memory to fill your hours with bitterness."

"Then I will meet it with other strength than my own. I have

resolved to enter the Community."

"So I feared. What do you hope to gain by so doing?"

"I will gain work, and rest--and peace."

"No, Margaret, you will not gain peace. Listen to me. I know you

better than you know yourself! You will find work, you may find

rest, of a kind, but what peace will come to you even though you

are shut in safe from the chance evils of life, when you think of

one who has loved as faithfully, but without the same hope as

yourself, wandering, a broken man, because you refused him admittance

to the happiness you alone could offer."

"Do you think it fair to try me by such an appeal? You know I can

never be indifferent to your fate. You know I have thought for you

even above myself," she said, with a tremor in her voice she could

not entirely suppress.

I saw my advantage, and seized it eagerly. "Then, Margaret, listen!

Listen while I plead for myself. What have I to look forward to,

if I lose you? Behind me are the best years of my life, wasted in

this wilderness because I had hoped to secure your happiness by my

exile. To-day I have seen every hope of my advancement vanish; that

I can take as one of the chances of war--but what have I left if

I lose you now? You are the whole world to me, and all it can offer

is nothing, if it does not include you. Margaret, my love! Call

back the day when, if I could have spoken, love waited in your

heart to answer. Give me a single hour of that past now! a moment

of the old love in which to plead for your life as well as my own."

Her colour came and went as I spake; she had visibly lost that

control which had so far baffled me, and when she answered, it was

with the familiar name she had not uttered, save when she had been

surprised into it on our first meeting.

"Oh, Hugh, do not try me. You know not what I have gone through,

and now I am near to God."

"Margaret, my darling, you will be nearer God when you are beside

the man to whom He would confide you. You know I love you with

all my soul! How can you look for happiness apart from him whom

you have loved so long, and whom you love even now!" I ended,

determined to risk the utmost. "Come to me, Margaret! Come to me!

We will face life together, and together there will be no room for

further doubtings, for further mistakes! I cannot shape my love

into words. It is all my life, all my being, and yet it is a poor

thing to offer you."

"Oh, Hugh, I know not which way to turn."

"Turn to me, Margaret! Turn to me! If ever a man needed a good

woman's love, I need yours now. Everything is falling about me. I

may have no right to ask, but I cannot help it. My need is greater

than my strength. Am I to go forth into exile again without

you-Margaret?"

"Hugh, my only love!" she cried, in a voice vibrant with tenderness;

and with the words she extended to me her trembling, upturned hands.

In my eyes it seemed as though they held all the priceless treasure

of her enduring love.

For a few days longer the cannon continued to grumble backward and

forward between wall and trench, until the arrival of the _Vanguard_,

_Diana_, and _Lawrence_ placed matters beyond a peradventure.

Thereupon M. de Levis promptly disbanded his Canadians, and during

the night of the 16th, under a searching fire from the ramparts,

he withdrew from his lines, and fell back upon Deschambault.

The siege was at an end. Within the town officers and men rejoiced

in their escape from incessant duty, and welcomed the plenty which

succeeded the semi-starvation of the winter; the towns-people, as

is always the case, were ready to accept any rule which would

guarantee to them security and peace, while the surrounding parishes

were gladdened by the return of their volunteers, seeing therein

a promise of the renewal of the quiet for which they longed. The

gates were thrown open, and once more the country-folk thronged

within the walls to offer their scanty provisions, and to bargain

with the "kilties" and "red-coats" with a confidence that spake

well for the humanising influences of war. General Murray received

M. Malartic, who had been left in charge of the wounded in the

General Hospital, and other of our officers at his table in friendly

hospitality, and ordinary life took up its interrupted course.

But with much rejoicing on the one hand came sadness on the other.

The news of the death of Sarennes was now received in due course

by his mother and sister, but was borne with surprising spirit,

especially by the former, who comforted herself with the thought

that the last of his house had found death in a profession which

his fathers had distinguished by their name, while his sister had

both youth and love to support her.

Kit was jubilant over his promotion as ensign, which had happened

even sooner than his captain had foretold; he was received by his

superiors and equals with flattering congratulations, and the men

looked without jealousy on his advancement. To me it was gratifying

to find he valued it not so much for the position, as for the

recognition of his proper standing as a gentleman's son.

Nairn was happy in his escape from the humiliation of being asked

in marriage, and impatiently counted the days of mourning until he

could make his demand on Mademoiselle de Sarennes "selon tous les

regles de la bienseance." That he was in love, even to the point

of blindness, was amply proved by his astonishment that there were

others in the like case as himself.

"Captain Nairn," I said to him, in Margaret's presence, the day

before his departure for Montreal with the troops, "as you are the

head of your family, I have the honour to demand of you the hand

of your sister in marriage."

"God bless my soul, Peggy!" he exclaimed, with the utmost honesty.

"I had never thought of you as marrying. I had planned that you

would always live with me."

"Suppose, Nairn, that Mme. de Sarennes had said the same of

Angelique?"

"But that is different. You see, Peggy is..." But here he fell into

a sadden confusion, and then, correcting himself, cried, with much

vehemence: "No, she isn't! Peggy, you are the dearest girl in the

whole world! You deserve all the world can give you. You take her,

Chevalier, with the best wishes of a brother, whose greatest

misfortune has been not to have known her better."

And so matters were settled. Nairn marched with the troops to take

his share in what I have always looked upon as the most admirable

of Murray's achievements, a campaign politic, rather than military;

at once to overawe and reassure the inhabitants, and, this

accomplished, to converge on Montreal with Amherst and Haviland.

The situation in which Levis found himself was impossible, and it

only remained for Vaudreuil to accept the terms of capitulation

which were offered. From his point of view they were no doubt

honourable, but in his anxiety to save the goods and chattels of

a parcel of shopkeepers, he saw fit to sacrifice the honour of

those troops, who, for six arduous campaigns, had stood between

him and his fate. Thus, on the 8th of September, 1760, Canada passed

forever into the hands of the English; who thus held America from

Florida to Hudson Bay, from the Atlantic to the Mississippi. But

these events will no doubt be more fully related by "the gentleman

at his desk--" and I will return.

Soon after the arrival of the victorious troops with their prisoners

from Montreal, a double marriage was celebrated in the chapel of

the Ursulines, General Murray standing for Margaret, while M. de

Levis rendered the same courtesy to Angelique, and the officiating

priest was le pere Jean.

At two we sat down to dinner in the General's quarters, surrounded

by friends old and new; for those who had withstood each other so

stoutly in the field now vied only in expressions of personal

admiration and esteem. Poulariez, Malartic, and le petit Joannes

sat side by side with Fraser, Burton, and Rollo, while the two

generals shared the honours of the feast with Margaret and Angelique.

M. de Levis did me the honour to request that I would supplement

his encomium on our hosts by a few words in English, which I did

with poor enough effect; but on being called upon on all sides for

a song, I retrieved my halting prose with the following, which I

had set to the old air of "Dalmeny":

"Though unrelenting fate hath cast

In camps opposed our lot,

Though we have faced each other oft

And Scot hath drawn on Scot,

I cannot hold that Chance, or Time,

Or waste of sundering sea.

Can part the banished hearts that meet

At one in their Ain Countrie.

"We've sprung from every mile that lies

'Twixt Tweed-side and Ardshiel,

To wake the corners of the world

With clash of Scottish steel.

We've kept our faith to King and Prince

And held it ample fee,

If life or death might keep our name

Alive in our Ain Countrie.

"We've ridden far for name and fame.

We've never stooped for gold.

We've led the flying columns back

With victory in our hold.

We've won undying name and fame!

Yet all o' it I'd gie

To see the red sun set at hame,

At hame, in my Ain Countrie."

The enthusiasm of our generous hosts over my effort formed a fitting

close to the festivity, and the refrain of "Our Ain Countrie" was

carried forth from the room to pass from lip to lip until the whole

garrison was wild over it, and many a homesick fellow found sad

consolation in my poor effusion of an idle hour. Such a gratification

is the highest which a man of taste can receive, and it is to be

regretted that more men of genius do not direct their efforts to

such pleasing ends.

With our friends Poulariez, Joannes, and others in command of the

Royal Roussillon, we were provided for in the _Duke_, Captain

Renwick, where Kit, Angelique, with her husband, and a score of

English officers assembled to bid us farewell, so that our leaving

resembled more a party of pleasure than the embarkment of a defeated

army.

But as we dropped down the stream and stood watching the great rock

of Quebec, with its fringe of batteries, and the English flag flying

where ours had so proudly held its place for many a day, a sadness

fell upon us all.

Margaret and I stood somewhat apart from the others.

"Hugh, dear, cannot you find some cause for thankfulness?" she

said, softly.

"Oh yes; like Bougainville, I can at least quote the Psalmist: 'In

exitu Israel de-AEgypto, domus Jacob de populo barbaro.'"

"Oh, Hugh, do not say that! It has been a blessed land to us.

Listen, dear, to what has been my comfort all these years," and

with her beauteous face filled with the exaltation of her love she

repeated:

"The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh,

Nor deep eneugh the sea,

Nor braid eneugh this weary warld,

To part my Love frae me."

[Illustration: "The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh."]

EPILOGUE

The desolate point known as Tadoussac, at the mouth of the river

Saguenay, in Canada, is the place of exile of a few officials who

guard the interests of the fur trade.

Their quarters, a few storehouses, and the little church with its

modest presbytere, form an outpost to the civilised world. During

the summer season the wandering Indians flock down in their canoes,

build their temporary huts, and a constant bustle of trade and

barter sets in. Furs are examined, valued, and exchanged for guns,

ammunition, clothing, and other luxuries of savage existence. The

arrival of the few ships necessary to this primitive commerce makes

the only other break in the monotonous existence of the little

colony. At the approach of winter the Indiana scatter, and the

officials and the solitary priest are prisoners until the spring

once more opens for them the doors of the outside world.

Here it was, on the evening of the 11th of April, 1782, that the

priest sate with his companions in the house of the principal

official.

At nine o'clock he rose and said good-night to his hosts in his

usual manner, but suddenly his whole appearance changed. Drawing

back, he raised his hand, and said, in tones of deepest earnestness:

"My friends, it is not only 'good-night,' it is 'good-bye.' Good-bye

for all time, for you will never see me again alive. To-night at

twelve I shall be called hence."

The little company were shocked beyond expression. The priest

stood before them tall, commanding, his figure full of life and

vigour, his eye bright and unfaltering, but his face lighted with

a mysterious solemnity that forbade questioning.

"At midnight the bell of the chapel will sound. You may come then,

but do not touch my body. To-morrow you will seek M. Compain, the

cure of the Isle aux Coudres, and he will prepare my body for

burial."

He withdrew, leaving the company in affrighted silence; ten, eleven

struck, and at midnight the bell of the chapel began to toll. They

arose, awe-stricken, and took their way to the little church.

By the dim light before the sanctuary they caught sight of the robe

of the priest. He was lying on the ground motionless, his face

covered by his hands as if in prayer on the first steps of the

altar.

That same night the bells of all the churches along the river, at

la Mal Baie, at Les Eboulements, at the Isle aux Coudres, at la

Baie St. Paul, and up through every parish to Quebec, rang without

the touch of mortal hands, and soon the wondering faithful knew

that the passing soul for which they rang was that of la pere Jean,

the missionary to the Indians, once known as Jean Marie Gaston de

Caldegues, Vicomte de Trincardel.

"Happy the people who still believe these sweet and holy legends."

THE END