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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. rata 3 lelure. 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 t / / f ' #■ f». 1 t ^m f ) I K 1 ^^^V ■^^ ^1 Ire ' ^^^^^^^^^1 H f l^^^^^^l t ■oe< / ^^^1 H '^^^1 Ifi I* J r-r^h.**" THE BASTONNAIS. ^^fmimim T ^. i ' I I ^ II i mw i I I I I IWipppfpi l lll ll. l I WIWII W l p illl li Hw X ""^^-w^^ ''*''**<*tl*l THE BA8T0NNAIS: TALE OF THE AMERICAN INVASION OF CANADA IN 177^-76. BY JOilN I4ESPEBA.NOE. TORONTO: BELFORD BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. 18 7 7. mmmm '-4'47212 '"*««&**«.***'''" LB^.f(^^^^y-£ J~ / Entered according to the Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven, by Belford Brothers, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture. .■t:'' V;": ^i ?^. Toronto : Williams, Sleeth & MacMillan, Printers, 124 Bay Street. '?» / CONTENTS. BOOK I. THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. CHAPTER PAGR I. Blue Lights 9 II. Beyond the River 13 III. At the Chateau 16 IV. In Cathedral Square 23 V. Receiving Despatches 28 VI. Pauline's Tears 31 VII. Beautiful Rebel 36 VIII. The Hermit of Montmorenci 40 IX. The Wolfs Cry 44 X. The Casket 49 XI, The Spirit of the Waterfall 53 XII. ThreeRivers 57 XIII. A Successful Mission 60 XIV. Crossing the Boats 63 XV. The Meeting of the Lovers 67 XVI. The Round Table 71 XVII. A Noble Reparation 74 XVIIL Roderick Hardinge 83 XIX. The Frightened Doves 87 XX. The Spectral Army 91 T 7 — T \ CONTENTS. \ I BOOK II. THE THICKENING OF THE Ct'OUDS. OHAPTKB t>Ati£ I. Zulma Sarpy 95 II. Fast and Loose loi III. The Sheet-Iron Men 106 IV. Birch and Maple in V. On the Ramparts 119 VI. The Flag of Truce 125 VII. The Covered Bridge 130 VIII. Gary Singleton 135 IX. The Song of the Violin 138 X. Blood Thicker than Water 143 XI. Death in the Falls 147 XII. Advice and Warning 151 XIII. A Woman's Tactics 156 XIV. The Romance of Love 160 XV. On the High Road 163 XVI. An Epic March 167 XVII. O Gioventu Primavera Delia Vita 172 XVIII. Braiding St. Catherine's Tresses 176 XIX. Par Nobile 183 V t BOOK in. THE BURSTING OF THE TEMPEST. I. Quebec in 1775-76 187 II. Cary*s Message 192 III. The Unremembered Brave 195 IV. Practical Love 202 V. Zulma and Batoche 205 I' » } I CONTENTS. vii VI. The Ball at the Castle 309 VII. The Attack of the Masks 214 VIII. Unconscious Greatness 219 IX. Pauline's Development 22$ X. On the Citadel 230 XI. Horseman and Amazon 234 XII. Was it Design or Accident ? 240 XIII. The Intendant's Palace 243 XIV. Little Blanche 247 XV. In Batoche's Cabin 254 XVI. A Painful Meeting 258 XVII. Nisi Dominus 265 XVIII. Last Days 270 XIX. Prbs-de-Ville 272 XX. Sault-au-Matelot 275 1,-' ■' BOOK IV. AFTER THE STORM. I. The Confessional 279 II. Blanche's Prophecy 284 in. The Prophecy Fulfilled 288 IV, Days of Suspense 293 V. The Invalid 296 VL The Saving Stroke 302 VII. Donald's Fate 306 VIII. The Burdened Heart 310 IX. Ebb and Flow 314 X. On the Brink 318 XL In the Vale of the Shadow of Death 324 XII. In the Fiery Furnace 329 -^^mmm HHMI Viii CONTENTS. CUAPTRR PAGE XIII. Roderick's Last Battle 333 XIV. At Valcartier 337 XV. Friendship Stronger than Love 340 XVI. The Hour of Gloom 345 XVII. The Great Retreat 348 XVIII. Consummatum Est 351 XIX. Final Quintet 357 ); 01 91 8( >rl h \- THE BAST0NNAI8. BOOK I. THE GATHERING OF THE STORM. Y t BLUE LIGHTS. He Stood leaning heavily on his carbine. High on his lonely perch, he slowly promenaded his eye over the dusk landscape spread out before him. It was the hour of midnight and a faint star-light barely outlined the salient features of the scenery. Behind him wound the valley of the St. Charles black with the shadows of pine and tamarac. Before him rose the crags of Levis, and beyond were the level stretches of the Beauce. To his left the waterfall of Montmorenci boomed and glistened. To his right lay silent and deserted the Plains of Abraham, over which a vai)or of sanguine glory seemed to hover. Directly under him slept the ancient city of Champlain. A few lights were visible in the Chateau of St. Louis where the Civil Governor resided, and in the guard-rooms of the Jesuit barracks on Cathedral-square, but the rest of the capital was wrapped in the solitude of gloom. Not a sound was heard in the narrow streets and tortuous defiles of Lower Town, A B ip""^ 10 THE BASTONNAIS. solitary lamp swung from the bows of the war-sloop in the river. He stood leaning heavily on his carbine. To have judged merely from his attitude, one would have said that he was doing soldier's duty with only a mechanical vigilance. But such was not the case. Never was sentry set upon watch of heavier responsibility, and never was watch kept with keener observation. Eye, ear, brain — the whole being was absorbed in duty. Not a sight escaped him — from the changes of cloud in the lowering sky over the offing, to the deepening of shadows in the alley of Wolfe's Cove. Not a sound passed unheard — from the fluttering wing of the sparrow that had built its winter nest in the guns of the battery, to the swift dash of the chipmunk over the brown glacis of the fortifications. Standing there on the loftiest point of the loftiest citadel in America, his martial form detached from its bleak surround- ings, and clearly defined, like a block of sculptured marble, against the dark horizon — silent, alone and watchful — he was the representative and custodian of British power in Canada in the hour of a dread crisis. He felt the position and bore him- self accordingly. Roderick Hardinge was a high-spirited young fellow. H^ belonged to the handful of militia which guarded the city of Quebec, and he resented the imputations which had been con- tinually cast, during the preceding two months, on the efficiency of that body. He knew that the Americans had carried every- thing before them in the upper part of the Colony. Schuyler had occupied Isle-aux-Noix without striking a blow. Five hundred regulars and one hundred volunteers had surrendered at St. Johns. Bedell, of New Hampshire, had captured Chambly, with immense stores of provisions and war material. Montgomery was marching with his whole army against Montreal. The garrison of that city was too feeble to sustain an attack and must yield to the enemy. Then would come BLUE LIGHTS. 11 the :y of icon. ncy ery- yler ive ired ired ial. linst ;ain >me the turn of Quebec. Indeed, it was well known that Quebec was the objective point of the American expedition. As the fall of Quebec had secured the conquest of New France by the British in 1759, so the capture of Quebec was expected to secure the conquest of Canada by the Americans in the winter of 1775-76. This was perfectly understood by the Continental Congress at Philadelphia. The plan of campaign was traced out with this view for General Schuyler, and when that officer resigned the command, owing to illness, after his success at St. Johns, Montgomery took up the same idea and determined to carry it out. From Montreal he addressed a letter to Congress in which he said pithily : " till Quebec is taken, Canada is unconquered." Roderick Hardinge was painfully aware that the authorities of Quebec had little or no confidence in the ability of the militia for the purposes of defence. It was necessary in the interest of that body, as well as in the interest of the city, that this prejudice should be exploded. Hardinge undertook to do it. No time was to be lost. In a fortnight Quebec might be invested. He set to work with the assistance of only one tried companion. Their pfoject was kept a profound secret even from the commander of the corps. It was the night of the 6th November, 1775. Hardinge left headquarters unnoticed and unattended, and proceeded at once to the furthest outpost of the citadel. He was hailed by the sentinel and gave the countersign. Taen, addressing the soldier by name — the man belonged to his regiment — he ordered him to hand over his musket. No questions were asked and no explanations were given. Hardinge was an officer, and the simple militiaman saw no other course than obedience. If he had any curiosity or suspicion, both were relieved by the further order to keep out of sight, but within hailing distance,until his services should be required. The signal was to be a whistle. Roderick Hardinge remained on guard from ten till twelve. r "m THE BASTONNAIS. As we have seen, he was sharply observant of everything that lay before him. But there was one point of the horizon to which his eye more assiduously turned. It was the high road leading from Levis over the table-land of the Beauce back to the forests. It was evidently from this direction that the •object of his watch was to appear. And he was not disap- pointed. Just as the first stroke of twelve sounded from the turret of Notre-Dame Cathedral, a blue light shot into the air from a point on this road, not more than a hundred yards from the river bank. Roused by the sight, Roderick straightened himself up, snatched his carbine from his left side, threw it up on his right shoulder and presented arms. The sixth stroke of midnight was just heard, when a second blue light darted skyward, but this time fully fifty yards nearer. The man who fired it was evidently running toward the river. Roderick made a step forward and uttered a low cry. The last stroke of the twelve had hardly been heard, when •a third light whizzed up from th^ very brink of the river. Roderick turned briskly round and gave a shrill whistle. The faithful soldier, whose watch he had assumed, immediately rushed forward, had his musket thrust back into his hands, with an injunction from Hardinge to keep silence. The latter had barely time to recede into the darkness when the relief-guard, •consisting of a corporal and two privates, came to the spot and the usual formality of changing sentries was gone through. m BEYOND THE RIVEB„ 13 II. BEYOND THE RIVER. With a throbbing heart, Roderick Hardinge walked rapidly over the brow of the citadel into Upper Town. He glanced up at the Chateau as he passed, but the lights which were visible there two hours before, were now extinguished, and the Governor was sleeping without a dream of the mischief that was riding out upon the city that night. He passed through the Square and overhead the wassail of the officers over their wine and cards. He answered the challenge of the sentinel at the gate which guarded the heights of Mountain Hill, and doubled his pace down that winding declivity. The old hill has been the scene of many an historic incident, but surely of none more momentous than this midnight walk of Roderick Hardinge. Along the dark, narrow streets of Lower Town, stumbling over stones and sinking into cavities. Not a soul on the way. Not a sign of life in the square, black ware- houses, with their barricades of sheet-iron doors and windows. In twenty minutes, the young officer had reached the river at the point where now stands the Grand Trunk wharf. A boat with two oars lay at his feet. Without a moment's hesitation he stepped into it, unfastened the chain that held it to the bank, threw the oars into their locks, and, with a vigorous stroke, turned the boat's nose to the south shore. As he did this, his eye glanced upward at the city. There it stood above him, silent and unconscious. The gigantic rock of Cape Diamond towered over him as if exultant in its own strength, and in mockery of his forebodings. He rowed under the stern of the war -sloop. A solitary lantern hung from her bows, but no watchman hailed him from her quarter. 'mmm wmmm ■^aa." 14 THE BASTONNAIS. " The Horse Jockey is evidently a myth for them all," he murmured. " But he will soon be found a terrible reality, and it's Roddy Hardinge will tell them so." The St. Lawrence is not so wide above Quebec as it is at other places along its course, and in a quarter of an hour, the oarsman had reached his destination. As the keel of his boat grated on the sands, a man stepped forward to meet him. The officer sprang out and slapped him on the shoulder. " Good old boy, Donald." " Thanks to you, maister." " Punctual to a minute, as usual, Donald." " Aye, sir, but 'twas .a close scratch. The horse, I fear, feels it mair than I do." " No doubt, no doubt. Rode much ? " " Nigh on ten hours, sir, and nae slackened rein." " Oh, but my heart leaped, Donald, when I saw your first rocket. I could hardly believe my eyes." " Just saved my distance, maister. If I had broken a gairth, I would have been too late. But it's dune, sir." , " Yes, old friend, and well done." The two men then entered upon a long and earnest cors ference, speaking in low tones. From the animated manner of the old man and the frequent exclamations of the younger, it was evident that important information was being communi- cated by the one to the other. During a pause in the conversation, Donald produced a small paper parcel which he handed to Roderick Hardinge. '•'Twas stuckit in the seat o' my saddle, maister," said he, " an I wadna hae lost it for the warld." Roderick wrapped the parcel in his bandanna, and carefully placed it in his breast pocket, after which he buttoned his coat to the chin. At the end of half an hour, the two men prepared to separate. HEYOND THE RIVER. 15 " I will now hurry across," said Roderick. " And you, Donald, return to the inn. You must need rest terribly." "Twa hours or sae will set me to richts, sir." "And your horse?" " He's knockit up for gude, sir." " Then get another and the best you can find. Here are fifty sovereigns. Use them freely in His Majesty's name." Donald bowed loyally and low. " I will be awake and awa' a gude hour before dawn, maister Roddy. The sunrise will see me weel oot o' the settlements." " And we meet here again at midnight." " Depend upon it, sir, unless the rapscallion rebels should catch and hang me up to one of the tall aiks o' the Chaudiere." " Never fear, Donald ; a traitor's death was never meant for an old soldier of the King, like you." The young officer entered his boat and immediately bent to the oars. The old servant walked up the hill leading to Levis, and was soon lost in the darkness, to 16 THE BASTONNAIS. 111. AT THE CHATEAU. Roderick reached the north shore in safety. He fastened his boat to the same green, water-worn bulwark from which he had loosened it not more than an hour before. He walked up to the city along the same route which he had previously followed. Nothing had changed. Everything was profoundly quiescent. Kvery body was still asleep. If he courted secrecy, he must have been content, for it was evident that no one had been a witness of his strange ])roceedings. When he got within the gates of Upper Town, his pace slackened perceptibly. It was not hesitation, but deliberation. He paused a n^oment in front of the barracks. The lights in the officers' quarters were out and no sound came from the mess-room. This circumstance seemed to deter him from entering, and he continued on his way direct to the Chateau St. Louis. Having passed the guard satisfactorily, he rapped loudly at the main portal. An orderly who was sleeping in his clothes, on a lounge in the vestibule, sprang to his feet at once snatching ui) his dark lantern from behind the door, and opened. Throwing the light upon the face of his visitor, he exclaimed — " Halloa, Hardinge, what the deuce brings you here at this disreputable hour? Come in ; it's blasted cold." " I want to see His Excellency." " Surely not just now ? He was ailing la.t evening ;.nd retired early. I don't think he would fancy being drummed up before daylight." " Very sorry, but I must see him." " Some little scrape, eh ? Want the old gentleman to get AT THE CHATEAU. 17 you out of it before the town has wind of it," said the orderly, who by this time was thoroughly awake and disposed to be in good humor. " Something far more serious, Simpson, I am concerned to say. You know I would not call here at such an hour without the most urgent cause. I really must see the Governor and at once." This was said without any signs of impatience, but in so earnest a way, that the orderly, who knew his friend well, felt that the summons could not be denied. He, therefore, pro- ceeded at once to have the Governor awakened. With more celerity than either of the young men had looked for, that official rose, dressed and stepped into his ante-chamber where he sent for Hardinge to meet him. After a few words of apology, the latter unfolded to His Excellency the object of his visit. He stated that while every body in the city was busying himself about the invasion of the Colony from the west, by the Continental army under Montgomery, the other invading column from the east, under Arnold, was almost completely lost sight of For his part, he declared that he considered it the more dangerous of the twain. It was com- posed of some very choice troops, had been organized under the eye of Washington himself, and was commanded by a dashing fellow. In addition to his other qualities, Arnold had the incalculable advantage of a personal knowledge of the city from several visits which he had quite lately paid it for commercial purposes. The people of Quebec seemed com- pletely to ignore Arnold's expedition. They had a notion that it was or would be submerged somewhere among the cascades of the Kennebec, or, at least, that it would never succeed in penetrating so far as the frontier at Sertigan. The Governor wrapped his dressing gown more closely about him, threw his head back on the pillow of his arm- chair, and gave vent to a little yawn or two, as if in gentle 18 THE BASTONNAIS. wonder whether it were worth while to rouse him from his slumbers for the sake of all this information with which he was quite familiar already. But the Governor was a patient, courteous gentleman, and could not believe that even a militia officer would presume so far on his good nature as to come to him at such an hour, unless he had really something of definite importance to communicate. He, therefore, did not interrui)t his visitor. Roderick Hardinge continued to say that, fearing lest Arnold should pounce like a vulture upon the city while most of the troops of the Colony were with General Carleton, near Montreal, and in the Richelieu peninsula, and while, consequently, it was in an almost defenceless condition, he had determined to find out for himself all the facts connected with his approach. It might be presumption, on his part, but he had not full confidence in the few reports on this head which had reached the city, and wished to satisfy himself from more personal sources. Here His Excellency smiled a little at the ingenuous con- fession of the subaltern, but a moment later, he opened his eyes very wide, when Roderick told him in minute detail all the circumstances which we have narrated in the preceding chapters. " Your man, Donald, is thoroughly reliable ?" queried the Lieutenant-Governor. " I answer for him as I would for myself. He was an old servant of my father's all through his campaigns." " He says that Arnold has crossed the line?" "Yes, Your Excellency." " And that he is actually marching on Quebec?" " Yes, Your Excellency." " And that he is within ?" " Sixty miles of the city." The Lieutenant-Governor plucked his velvet bonnet fronj jiis head and flung it on the table. AT THE CHATEAU. 19 " Did you say sixty miles ?" " Sixty miles, sir." His Excellency quietly took up his cap, set it on his head, threw himself back in his seat, placed his elbows on the elbows of the chair, closed his palms together perpendicularly, moved them up and down before his lips, and with his eyes cast to the ceiling, entered upon this little calculation. " Sixty miles. At the rate of fifteen miles a day, it will take Mr. Arnold four days to reach Levis. This is the seventh, is it not ? Then, on the eleventh, we may expect that gentle- man's visit." " Arnold will make two forced marches of thirty miles each, Your Excellency, and arrive opposite this city in two days. This is the seventh; on the ninth, we shall see his vanguard on the heights of Levis." " Ho ! Ho ! And is that the way the jolly rebel is carrying on ? He must have had a wonderful run of luck all at once. The last we heard from him, his men had mutinied and were about to disband." " That was because they were starving." " And have they been filled, forsooth ?" " They have, sir." " By whom ?" " By our own people at Sertigan and further along the Chaudi^re." " But horses ? They are known to have lost them all in the wilderness." " They have been replaced." ** Not by our own people, surely." " Yes, sir, by our own people." " Impossible. Our poor farmers have been robbed and plundered by these rascals." " Excuse me. Your Excellency, but these rascals pay ax[^ pay largely for whatever they require." 20 THE IIASTONNAIS. "In coin?" " No, sir, in paper." " Their Continental paper?" "The same." " Rags, vile rags." " That may be. But our farmers accept them all the same and freely." Roderick here produced the small parcel which he had deposited in his breast pocket, and having unfolded it, drew forth several slips which he handed to His Excellency. They were specimens of American currency, and receipts signed by Arnold and others of his officers for cattle and provisions obtained from Canadian farmers. " Indeed," continued the young officer, " Your Excellency will excuse me for saying that, from all the information in my possession^ — information upon which I insist that you can implicitly rely — it is beyond question that the population, through which the invading column has passed and is passing, is favourable to their cause. A trumpery proclamation written by General Washington himself, and translated into French, has been distributed among them, and they have been carried away by its fine sentences about liberty and independence. These facts account for all the misleading and false reports which we have hitherto received concerning the expedition. We have been purposely and systematically kept in the dark in regard to it. Left to itself, Arnold's army would have disbanded through insubordination, or perished of starvation and hardship in the wilderness. Comforted and replenished by His Majesty's own subjects, it is now marching with threat- ening front toward Quebec." " Traitors to the King in the outlying districts cannot un- fortunately be so easily reached as those who lie more immedi- ately under our eyes. But their time will come yet. Meanwhile, we have to keep a sharp watch over disaffection and treason AT THE CHATEAU. 21 within the walls of this very city," said the I^icutenant-Gov- ernor with great earnestness and very perceptible warmth. " This parcel may probably assist Your Excellency in doing so," replied Hardinge, at the same time delivering the remain- der of the package which he had received from Donald. "What have we here?" questioned the Governor, while unfastening the strings which bound the parcel. " Letters from Colonel Arnold to General Schuyler, the original commander of the army of invasion. Arnold will be surprised, if not chagrined, to learn that Schuyler has been succeeded by Montgomery." " Ah ! I see. Well, as these letters are not addressed to General Montgomery, and as Gen. Schuyler has left the country, it will be no breach of eticiuette on our part if we open them. No doubt they will furnish very interesting read- ing. And these ?" " They are letters from Arnold to several prominent citizens of Quebec." "Impossible." " Your Excellency will please read the addresses." The Governor examined the superscriptions one by one, and in silence, while he made his comments in an under- tone. " Mr. L. — It does not surprise me." " Mr. F.— I shall inquire into it." " Mr. O.— As likely as not." " Mr. R. — Must be some mistake. He is too big a fool to take sides one way or the other." " Mr. G.~His wife will have to decide that matter for him." " Mr. X. — I'll give him a commission, and he'll be all right." " Mr. N.— I don't believe a word of it." "Mr. H. — Loose fish. He was false to France under Montcalm. He may be false to England under Carleton." And so on through a dozen more. At length he came upon the twentieth address, when he exclaimed : E PMPPPV 22 THE nASTONNAIS. " Mr. B. — -Impossible ! My best friend ! But what if it were true ? Who knows what these dark days may bring about? B — ! B — ! 1 will see to it at once." Saying which, he flung all the letters on the table, and striv- ing to master his excitement, turned towards Roderick Hard- inge, and asked : " Have you anything else to say to me, my young friend ?" " Nothing more, sir, unless it be to apologize for having occupied so much of your time, and especially at this hour." " Never mind that. If what you have told me is all true, the information is incalculable in importance. I shall lose no time in acting, and shall not forget you, nor your old servant. I will send out scouts at once, and proceed myself to the examination of these letters which you have placed in my hands. The situation is grave, young man. You have done well, and to show you how much I appreciate your conduct, I intend employing you on a further mission. You have not slept this night?" " No, Your Excellency." ' " It is now half-past five. Go and rest till noon. At that hour come to me with the best saddle horse in your regiment. I will give you your instructions then." Roderick Hardinge gave the salute and took his departure just as the first streaks of dawn lighted the sky. No one accosted him in the vestibule. The sentinel at the entrance did not even notice him. He walked straight to the barracks. As he crossed the Cathedral-square, a graceful hooded figure glided past him and entered into the old church. It was pretty Pauline Belmont. Roderick recognized her, and turned to speak to her, but she had disappeared under the arcade. Alas ! if either of them had known. ') IN CATHEDRAL SQUARE. 23 IV. IN CATHEDRAL SQUARE. There was a notable stir in Quebec on the morning of the 7th November, 1775. The inhabitants who had retired to their houses, the evening before, in the security of ignorance, rose the next day with the vague certainty of an impending portent. There was electricity in the air. The atmosphere was charged with moral as well as material clouds. People opened their windows and looked out anxiously. They stood on their doorsteps as if timorous to go forward. They gathered in knots on the street corners and conferred in low tones. There was nothing definite known. Nobody had seen any- thing. Nobody had heard anything. Yet all manner of wild stories circulated through the crowds. Strange fires were said to have burned in the sky during the night. A phantom cen- tinel had kept watch on the citadel, a spectral waterman had crossed the river with muffled oars, a shadowy horseman from the forest had dashed through Levis, and his foaming steed had fallen dead on the water's edge. Those who disbelieved might see the corse of the animal in a sand-quarry not a hun- dred yards from where he fell. And there was more. A mys- terious visitor had called .upon the Governor in ihe small hours. A long conference had taken place between them. The Governor was in a towering rage, and the stranger had departed upon another errand as singular as that which had brought him to the Chateau. These and other more fantastic rumors flew from mouth to mouth and from one end of the city to the other. It is wonderful how near the truth of things above them the ignorant crowd can come, and how powerful is the instinct of great events in vulgar minds. By ten o'clock r 24 THE BASTONNAIS. Quebec was in an uproar, and Cathedral-square was full of people. Facing the Square from the east was the barracks. But no signs of commotion were visible there. Two sentries walked up and down their long beats as quietly as if on parade. Pri- vates who were off duty stood leaning against the wall or the door-frames of the building, with their hands in their pockets and one leg resting over the other. Some even smoked their pipes with that half-blank, half-truculent expression which people find so provoking in public officials at times of popular excitement. Still a close inspection showed that the military were busier than usual. Patrol guards issued from the court-' yard at more frequent intervals, and the knowing ones observed that they were doubled. It was noticed also that more parts of the city were being guarded than the day before. For instance, fully one hundred men were detached for service along the line of the river where previously there were few or none. Officers, too, were constantly riding to and from the barracks, evidently carrying orders. Passing through the Square, they moved slowly, but in the side streets accelerated their pace. The forenoon thus wore away. The sky kept on thickening and lowering until it broke into a snow-storm. A light east wind arose, and the white flakes tossed and whirled, blotting out the lines of the horizon. The heights of Levis melted in the distance, the bed of the river was surmounted by a wall of vapor, and the tall rock of the citadel wavered like a curtain of gauze. What a delicious sense of isolation is produced by an abundant snow-fall. It hems you in from all the world. You extend your hand feeling for your neighbor, and you touch nothing but a palpable mist. You raise your face to the heavens, and the soft touch of the flossy drops makes you close your eyes as in a dream. The great crowd in the Square was thus broken into indistinct groups, and its mighty rumor dwin- IN CATHEDRAL SQUARE. m died to a murmur in the heavy atmosphere. But all the same the expectant and anxious multitude was there, and its num- bers were continually increasing. Women, wrapped in scarfs or muffled in hoods, now added to its volume. Priests from the neighboring Seminary, in shovel hats, Roman collars, and long black cloaks, quietly edged their way through the masses. And the irrepressible small boy, the very same a hundred years ago as he is to-day, dashed in and out, from the centre of the crowd to its circumference, intent upon seeing and hearing everything, yet blissfully incurious of the dread secret of all this gathering. Suddenly there was a movement in the centre of the Square. The concentric circles of people felt it successively till it rippled to the very outskirts of the assemblage. Everybody inquired of his neighbor what had happened. " Two men are fighting," said one. " A woman has fallen into a fit," said another. " Old Boniface is dancing a jig," said a third. Whereupon there was a laugh, for Boniface was a mounte- bank of La Canardiere, famous in the city and all the country side. "A Bastonnais prisoner has just been brought in," said a fourth. At this a serious interest was manifested. A Bastonnais prisoner meant an American prisoner. The expedition of Arnold was known lo have started from Boston. Hence its members were called Bostonese. Bastonnais is a rustic corruption for the French Bostonnais, and the corruption has extended to our day. The whole American invasion is still known among French Canadians as /a guerre des Bastonnais. There is always a certain interest attached to national sole- cisms, and we have retained this one. " It is none of any of these things," said a grave old gentle- man, who was working his way out of the crowd with a scared look. C 26 THE BASTONNAIS. " What is it ?" asked several voices at once. " One of our own citizens has been arrested." " Arrested ! arrested ! " " Well, if he is not arrested, he is at least summoned to the Chateau." "Who is it?" " M. Belmont." " What ! the father of our nationality, the first citizen of Quebec ? It cannot be," " Ah, my friends ! let us disperse to our homes. This is a day of ill-omen. Things look as if the sad times of the Con- ([uest were returning. '59 and '75 ! It seems that we have not suffered enough in these sixteen years." And the old gentleman disappeared from the throng. What happened was simply this, A tall young man, dressed in a long military coat, had for a time mingled in the crowd, looking at nearly every one as he moved along. When at length he was well in the midst, he seemed suddenly to recognize the object of his search, for he stepped deliberately up to a middle- aged gentleman, and handed him a paper. With a movement of surprise, the gentleman received the missive and looked sharply at the messenger. He glanced at the address, while a perceptible thrill shot over his features. He then hurriedly broke the seal and ran his eye over the brief contents of the letter, after which he crumpled it into his pocket. " How long since this paper was despatched ?" lie asked rather testily of the young messenger. *' Over an hour ago, sir." *' And why was it not delivered at once?" " Because I could not find you at your residence, and had to seek you in this dense multitude," was the firm, yet respect- ful reply. " Are you an aide de camp of His Excellency ?" " I have that honor, sir." ^^i IN CATHEDRAL SQUARE. 27 "There is then no time to be lost. Let us go immediately." 1 he two men turned and a way was immediately opened for them by the crowd, while a suppressed murmur greeted them as they passed. A frail girl, with azure veil drawn closely over her face, hung heavily on the arm of the elder. When they reached the corner of Fabrique-street, which debouches into the Square at the north-west angle of the Cathedral, these two separated. ;'VVhat does it mean, father?" asked the girl in a timid voice. "Nothing, my child. Go home directly and await my return I will be with you within an hour." The girl went up the narrow street, and the two men wended their way m silence to the Chateau St. Louis. After this incident the Square gradually emptied until onlv a few idlers were left. 28 THE BASTONNAIS. ■I V. RECEIVING DESPATCHES. A LITTLE before noon Roderick Hardinge stepped down from his quarters into the courtyard of the barracks, booted and spurred. A full-blooded iron-grey charger, instinct with speed and strength in every limb, stood saddled and bridled for him. The man who held him by the head happened to be the soldier whose watch Hardinge had kept the night before. " Is that you, Charles?" said the young officer tightening his girth by two buckle holes. "Yes, sir," replied the soldier, showing the white of his teeth. , " i\.nd all right this morning?" " Yes, thank you, sir." Hardinge vaulted into the saddle at one spring. Then lacing the reins in his left hand, he continued : " Not been blabbing, Charles ?" " Oh, no, sir. Mum's my word." " That's right. But did you see everything?" " I saw the three rockets, sir, if that's what you mean, and knew they were meant for you. But what they were fired for I didn't know till this morning, when I heard the talk in the Square. Folks are pretty wild altogether this morning, sir." '* So they are, but they will be wilder when they know all. In the meantime keep everything to yourself, Charles, till you hear from me again. Good-bye." The solvlier touched his cap, and the officer trotted through the archway. A moment later he dismounted at the portal of the Chateau, threw the bridle into the hands of a groom in waiting, and RECEIVING DESPATCHES. 29 , » entered. The Lieutenant-Governor was in his office, and evidently expected him, for he immediately rose and con- gratulated him on his punctuality. He then proceeded to business without delay. " You are well mounted ?" " I think I have the fleetest and best-winded horse in the army." " You will need him. Three Rivers is eighty miles from Quebec." " As the crow flies, Your Excellency. By the road it is something more." " You must be there by ten o'clock to-night." " I will be there." " Here are despatches for the Commandant of Three Rivers." And he handed the officer a sealed package which the latter at once secured in his waistcoat pocket. " These despatches," the Governor continued, " contain all the information of military movements in this vicinity which I have been able to procure up to the last moment. But as no written statement can ever be so full as a verbal communication, I authorize you to repeat to the authorities of Three Rivers all the details which you gave me during the night. There was considerable exaggeration in the story of your man Donald" — here the Governor smiled a little — " but I have reason to believe that the substance of it is true, and I am going to act upon it. Arnold's column is marching on Quebec. That is the great point. Its arrival is only a question of time. It may be in ten days, eight days, six days, four days — " " Or two days," Hardinge could not help suggesting in a jovial way. " Yes, perhaps even two days," continued the Governor quite seriously. " Hence the necessity of your speed to Three Rivers. When you spoke to me this morning, I was so impressed that I resolved then to communicate with the ^ IT ymmmmmmmmmmm 30 THE BASTONNAIS. military postF up the river, but before actually sending you, I thought it best to make further inquiries. The information I' have now received justifies me in despatching you at once. The letter of Arnold to Schuyler and some of those he addressed to residents of this city, especially one, yes, one " — and here> for a moment, the Governor got very excited — " have revealed his whole plans to me. To horse then and away for King and country." Hardinge bowed and walked to the door. On reaching the threshold, he paused and said : " Pardon me. Your Excellency, but there is one thing I forgot to tell you before, and which, perhaps, I ought to tell you now ? " " What is it ? " " I promised to meet Donald again to-night." "When?" "At twelve." "Where?" " On the other side of the river, just above the Point." "Will he have important news?" " It may or may not be important, but it will be fresh, inasmuch as h'-. will have been all day reconnoitering the enemy on a very fast horse." " Can he not cross to this side?" " He has no instructions to that effect. Besides, he will arrive at the rendezvous at the last moment." " Then I will meet him myself. Good morning." Noon was just striking when Roderick cleared the gates and took the high road to Three Rivers. PAULINE'S TEARS. 31 VI. Pauline's tears. When Pauline Belmont reached her home, after separating from her father at the Square, she was considerably troubled. She could not define her fears, if, indeed, she had any, but mere perplexity was enough to weigh down her timid, shrinking little heart. She went up into her room, put off her furs, and, as she removed her azure veil, there was the gleam of tears in her beautiful brown eyes. She seated herself in her low rocking chair, and placing her feet on the edge of the fender, looked sadly into the flames. Little did Pauline know of the great world outside. Her home was all the universe to her, and that home centred in her father. Mother she had none. Sisters and brothers had died when she was a child. She had spent her youth in the convent of the gentle Ursulines, and now that she had finished her education, she had come to dedicate her life to the solace of her father. M. Belmont was still in the prime of life, being barely turned of fifty, but he had known many sorrows, domestic, social and political, and the only joy of his life was his darling daughter. An ardent Frenchman, he had lived through the terrible days of the Con- quest which had seared his brow like fire and left only ashes in his heart. He had buried his wife on the memorable day that Murray made his triumphal entry into Quebec, and within three years after that event, he laid three babes beside their mother. Had Pauline died, he too should have died, but as that lovely flower continued to blossom in the gloom of his isolation, he consented to live, and at times even to hope a little for her sake. Fortunately large remnants of his fortune remained to him. Indeed, he was accounted one of the mwmmmm 1- 32 THE BASTONNAIS. wealthiest men of Quebec. As his daughter grew to woman- hood, he used these riches to beautify his home and make existence more enjoyable to her. He was also a generous friend to the poor, especially those French families whom the war of 1759 and 1760, had reduced to destitution. Those who could not abide the altered forms of British rule and who desired to emigrate to France, he assisted by every means in his power, while those whom circumstances forced to remain in the vanquished province always found in him a patron and supporter. As time wore on, his friends induced him occasionally to withdraw from his solitude and take a feeble part in public affairs. But this interest was purely civic or municipal, never political. He persistently kept aloof from legislative councils and his loyalty to England was strictly passive. The ultra-British did not like him, always putting him down in their books as a malcontent. When the news of the revolt of the Thirteen Colonies reach- ed Quebec, it had at first no perceptible effect upon him. It was only a quarrel of Englishmen with Englishmen. The cast- ing of tea chests into the waters of Boston Bay he scoffed at as a vulgar masquerade. The musketry of Concord and Lex- ington found no echo in his heart. But when one day he read in his favorite Gazette de France that la patrie had designs of favoring the rebels, a flash of the old fire rose to his eyes, and he tossed his head with a show of defiance. Then came the thunders of Bunker Hill, and he listened complacently to their music. Then came rumors of the rebel army marching into Canada with a view of fraternizing with the conquered settlers of its soil. There was something after all then in this revolu- tion. It was not mere petulant resistance to fancied oppres- sion, but underlying and leavening it, there was a germinating principle of freedom, a parent idea of autonomy and nationality. He read the proceedings of the Congress at Philadelphia with ever-increasing admiration, and for once he admitted Pauline's tears. to the wisdom of such British statesmanship as that of Pitt Burke and Barre, the immortal friends of the American Colonies. All these things little Pauline remembered and pondered as she sat in her low chair looking into the fire. She did not do so in the consecutive form or the big words which we have just employed, but her remembrance was none the less vivid and her perplexity none the less keen, for all the phases of her father's mental life were well known to her in those simple in- tuitive ways which are peculiar to women. She concluded by asking herself these questions : " Has my father said or done anything to compromise him- self within the last few hours ? Why did M. de Cramah^ send for him in such haste ? The Governor is a friend of the family and must surely have cause for what he has done. And why was my poor father so agitated, why the young officer so grave, why the people so deeply impressed at the scene ?" She looked up at the clock over the mantel and found that an hour had been spent in these musings. Her father had promised to be back within that hour, and yet there were no signs of him. She went to the window and looked out, but she failed to see his familiar form advancing through the snow- storm. We have said that Pauline's life was wholly wrapped up in her father. That was strictly true in one sense, but in another sense, we must make note of an exception. There were new feelings just awakening in her heart. She was entering that delicious period of existence which is the threshold of the paradise of love. " Oh ! if he were only to come," she murmured, " or if I could go to him. He would relieve my anxiety at once. I will write him a note." She went to her table and was preparing paper and pen, !■«■« mmm i1 ': 34 THE BASTONNAIS. when the maid entered the room and delivered her a letter. " It is from himself, I declare," she exclaimed, and all the sorrow was dispelled from her eyes. She opened the letter and read. Dear Pauline : — I saw you going into the church this morning and wanted to speak to you, but you were too quick for me. I should very much have liked to run up in tlie course of the forenoon, but that too was impossible. So I send a line to say that I am off at noon on military duty. I don't know yet where I am going, nor how long I shall be away. But I trust the journey will be neither far nor long. I shall see you immediately on my re- turn. I suppose you and your father saw the crowd in the Square this morning. It was great fun. Give my respects to M. Belmont and believe me. Ever yours, devotedly, Roddy. Pauline was still holding this note in her hand, thinking over it, when her father surprised her by walking into the room. He was very pale, but otherwise bore no marks of agitation. Set- ting his fur cap on'the table and throwing open his great coat, he took a seat near the hearth. Before his daughter had time to say anything, he asked her quietly what she had in her hand. " It's a letter, papa ?" " From whom ?" " From Roddy." " Roderick Hardinge ? Burn it, my dear." " But, papa—" " Burn it at once." " But he sends you his love." Pauline's tears. 35 " He has just sent me his hate. Burn it, my daughter." Poor Pauline was overwhelmed with surprise and sorrow, but, without a word further, she dropped the paper into the fire. Then throwing her arms around her father's neck, she burst into a tempest of tears. rV s I 3fi THE HASTONNAIS. VII. BEAUTIFUL REBEL. Hardinge had not been gone more than half an hour when the skies hfted and the snow-storm ceased. The wind then shifted to the north, driving the drifts in banks against the fences and low stone walls, and leaving the road comparatively clear. He thus had splendid riding in the open spaces. He was in exultant spirits, of course, for he had everything in his favor — a magnificent horse upon whose speed and endurance he could rely, the opportunity of exploring a long stretch of country previously unknown to him, and, above all, the sense of being employed on a military expedition of the greatest import- ance. He had played for high stakes and had won them. At one stroke, he had rehabilitated the militia and brought his own name into prominence. The way was now open to him in the career which he loved and which his father had honored. If all went well with him he would win advancement and glory in this war. And he had no misgivings. What young soldier has with the bright sky over his head, the solid earth under his feet, the wide world before him, and the whiff of coming battle in his nostrils ? He imparted his own animation to his steed. The noble grey fairly flew over the ground, and Roderick saw from the first that he would have to restrain rather than impel him. His first stoppage was at Point-aux-Trembles, a beautiful village, which became historic during the war of invasion and with which will be associated several of the incidents of this story. He passed the inn of the place so as to avoid the queries and comments of the loungers who might be congregated there, and pulled up at a neat farm house on the outskirts. Without dis- 1 .i HEAUTIKUI, RKHEL. 87 f'i mounting, he asked that his horse might be watered, while he reciuested for himself a bowl of milk and a few drops of that good old Jamaica which all Canadian families had the good sense to keep in their houses at this period. As he was thus comforting himself, he noticed a pair of sparkling blue eyes laughing at him through the narrow panes of the road window. He did not try to be very inquisitive, but he could not help observing, in addition, that the roguish blue eyes belonged to a face of rare beauty, and that the form of the lady — for she was a lady, every inch of her — so far as it could be defined by the diminutive aperture, was of an exquisitely graceful mould. One observation led to another, and he very naturally associated this lady with the purple pinion that sat on the back of a little bay mare which was hitched near the door. His own horse had drained his bucket, and was champing his bit, as if anxious to be off once more ; he himself had emptied his bowl and he was vainly endeavoring to force a few pieces of coin upon the denying farmer, when the door of the dwelling opened and the lady walked f(jrth. She arranged the bridle herself, and placing her foot on the lowest step of the porch, seated herself snugly in the saddle without assistance. Then wishing the farmer and the farmer's jolly wife and* the farmer's multitudinous children a sweet bonjour^ she gently can- tered away, not without a parting shaft from those murderous blue eyes at the handsome cavalier. Venus and Adonis ! but she was going in his direction. So, bowing politely to the household, he immediately followed, and to his unspeakable delijjht — for this was an adventure he certainly had not looked for — he caught up with her at the first turn of the road. When he came alongside, he pulled in his reins, took off his cap and bowed. The salute was returned with a superb yet easy grace. His ardent glance took a full view of her with lightning speed and precision. He felt that he was in the presence of a grand woman. I«RH mm m^^mmimmm « . If 38 THE BASTONNAIS. " As we seem to be travelling in the same direction, will mademoiselle allow me to accompany her to her destination ?" " Thp.nk you, sir ; a military escort is always welcome, es- pecially to a lady, in these troublous times, but I really [do not live very far — only ten miles." " Ten miles !" exclaimed Hardinge. The lady broke out into a merry laugh, and said : " You wonder. This little beast is like the wind. You are well mounted, but I doubt you can follow me. Will you try ?" So saying, she snapped her white fingers, and the little Canadian pony, making a leap into the air, was away like an arrow. Hardinge dashed off in pursuit, and for a time held his own bravely, the horses keeping neck to neck, but presently he fell behind and the lady disappeared out of sight. When at length he came up with her, she was waiting at the gate of her father's house, a mansion of fine colonial dimensions, standing in a bower of maples. She was laughing heartily and enjoying her triumph. Hardinge, touching his cap gracefully, acknow- ledged his defeat. " This will be a lesson for you, sir," she said. '• A lesson, mademoiselle ?" " It will teach you to chase rebels again." " Beautiful rebel," murmured Roderick, bowing profoundly and wholly unable to conceal his admiration. " You don't choose to understand me," she said, half seri- ously and half jestingly, " but later, perhaps, you will do so. I believe I am speaking to Lieutenant Hardinge ?" " That is my name, at your service, mademoiselle, and am I mistaken in presuming that I address a member of the Sarpy family, for this is the mansion of Sieur Sarpy, well known to me." " I am his daughter. I have only lately returned from France where I spent many years." .. » < BEAUTIFUL REBEL. 89 " Not the Zulma of whom I have heard your brother speak so often ?" " The same." And the wild frolic of her spirits broke out into a silvery peal, as she seemingly recollected some idea connected with the name. She invited Roderick to dismount and enter, but he was obliged to excuse himself as having tarried already too long, and thus this adventure terminated. Its romantic sequel will be related in subsequent chapters. Hardinge pursued his journey without further episodes of interest. The road between Quebec and Three Rivers was not what it is at present, "^here were no corduroys across the swamps, no bridges over the streams and the way was blocked for miles upon miles by the unpruned forest, through which a L. lie path was the only route. Notwithstanding all these drawbacks, however, our horseman had reached Three Rivers, stabled his grey, and delivered his despatches before ten o'clock that night. He was very tired, indeed, when he retired to rest, but this did not prevent the youthful brain from dreaming, and the youthful lips from murmuring : " Beautiful rebel !" JPPWPiWi 40 THE BASTONNAIS. VIII. THE HERMIT OF MONTMORENCI. His name was Baptiste, but he went by the more familiar appellation of Batoche. His residence was a hut near the Falls of Montmorenci, and there he led the life of a hermit. His only companions were a little girl calle-'I Blanche, and a large black cat which bore the appropriate title of Velours, for though the brute was ugly and its eyes , " Had all the seeming Of a demon's that is dreaming,"' its coat was soft and glossy as silken velvet. The interior of the hut denoted poverty, but not indigence. There was a larder in one corner ; a small oven wrought into the chimney to the right of the fire-place ; faggots and logs of wood were piled up near the hearth, and diverse kitchen utensils and other comforts hung brightly on the wall. In the angle of the soli- tary room furthest from the door, and always lying in shadow, was a curtained alcove, and in this a low bedstead over which a magnificent bear-skin was thrown, with the head of the ani- mal lying on the pillow, and its eyes, bulging out in red flannel, turned to the rafters above. Directly behind the doo stood a wooden sofa which could sit two or three persons during the day, but which, at night, served as the couch of little Blanche. A shallow circular cavity in the large blue flag of the hearth was the resting place of Velours. On two hooks within easy reach of his hand, rested a long heavy carbine, well worn, but still in good order and with which, so long as he could carry it, Batoche needed never pass a day without a meal, for the game was abundant almost to his very door. From the beams THE HERMIT OF MONTMORENCI. 41 were suspended an array of little bags of seeds, paper comets of dried wild flowers and bunches of medicinal herbs, the acrid, pungent odor of which pervaded the whole room and was the first thing which struck a stranger upon entering the hut. The habitation of Batoche was fully a mile from any other dwelling. Indeed, at that period, the country in the immediate vicinity of the Falls of Montmorenci was very sparsely settled. The nearest village, in the direction of Quebec, was Beauport, and even there the inhabitants were comparatively few. The hut of the hermit was also removed from the high road, stand- ing about midway between it and the St. Lawrence, on the right side of the Falls as one went toward the river, and just in a line with the spot where they plunge their full tide of waters into the rocky basin below. From his solitary little window Batoche could see these Falls at all times, and under all circumstances — in day time, and in night time ; glistening like diamonds in the sunlight, flashing like silver in the moonbeams, and break- ing through the shadow of the deepest darkness with the comis- cations of their foam. Their music, too, was ever in his ears, forming a part of his being. It ran like a web through his work and his thoughts during the day ; it lulled him to sleep at night with the last ember on the hearth, and it always awoke him at the first peep of dawn. The seasons for him were marked by the variation of these sounds — the thunderous roar when the spring freshets or the autumn rain-falls came, the gentle purling when the summer droughts parched the stream to a narrow thread, and the plaintive moan, as of electric wires, when the ice-bound cascade was touched upon by certain winter winds. Batoche's devotion to this cataract may have been exagger- ated, although only in keeping, as we shall see, with his whole character, but really 'he Falls of Montmorenci are among the D ^p^mmam ■^ 42 THE BASTONNAIS. most beautiful works of Nature on this continent. We all make it a point to visit Niagara once in our lives, but except in the breadth of its fall, Niagara has no advantage over Montmo- renci. In altitude it is far inferior, Montmorenci being nearly one hundred feet higher. The greater volume of Niagara in- creases the roar of the descent^and the quantity of mist from below, but the thunder of Montmorenci is also heard from a great distance, and its column of vapor is a fine spectacle in a strong sunlight or in a storm of thunder and lightning. Its ac- cessoiies of scenery are certainly superior to those of Niagara in that they are much wilder. The country around is rough, rocky and woody. In front is the broad expanse of the St. Lawrence, and beyond lies the beautiful Isle of Orleans which is nothing less than a picturesque garden. But it is particular- ly in winter that the Falls of Montmorenci are worthy of being seen. They present a spectacle unique in the world. Cana- dian winters are proverbial for their severity, and nearly every year, for a few days at least, the mercury touches twenty-five and thirty degrees below zero. When this happens the head- long waters of Montmorenci are arrested in their course, and their ice-bound appearance is that of a white lace veil thrown over the br/)\r of the cliff, and hanging there immoveably. Before the freezing process is completed, however, another singular phenomenon is produced. At the foot of the Falls, where the water seethes and mounts, both in the form of vapor and liquid globules, an eminence is gradually formed, rising constantly in tapering shape, until it reaches a considerable altitude, sometimes one-fourth or one-third the height of the Fall itself. This is known as the Cone. The French people call it more poetically Le Pain de Sucre, or sugar-loaf. On a bright day in January, when the white light of the sun plays caressingly on this pyramid of crystal, illuminating its veins of emerald and sending a refracted ray into its circular air-holes, the prismatic effect is enchanting. Thousands of persons visit mt. We all 3ut except in ^er Montmo- being nearly Niagara in- if mist from leard from a )ectacle in a ling. Its ac- ; of Niagara id is rough, e of the St. )rleans which is particular- rthy of being irorld. Cana- 1 nearly every es twenty-five lens the head- r course, and ;e veil thrown immoveably. ever, another t of the Falls, form of vapor formed, rising I considerable height of the French people ;ar-loaf. On a the sun plays ing its veins of cular air-holes, )f persons visit THE HERMIT OF MONTMORENCI. 43 MontmorencI every winter for no other object than that of enjoying this sight. It is needless to add that the youthful generation visit the Cone for the more prosaic purpose of loboganning or sledding from its summit away down to the middle of the St. Lawernce. w THE RASTONNAIS. IX. THE WOLF S CRY. It was an hour after sunset, and the evening was already v'eiy drrk, Batoche had stirred the fire and prepared the little tai k , seating two pewter plates upon it, with knife and fork. He pvtjduced a huge jack-knife from his pocket, opened it, and laid thin vo on the table. He then went to the cup-board'and broughr +rorj' 'r a loaf of brown bread which he laid beside one of the plates. Having seemingly completed his preparations for supper, he stood still in the middle of the floor, as if listening : " Tis strange," he muttered, " she never is so late." He walked to the door, which was flung open into his face by the force of the wind, and looked long and intently to the right and to the left. " The snow is deep," he said, " the path to the high road is blocked up. Perhaps she has lost her way. But, no. She has never lost her way yet." He closed the door, walked absently over the room, and after gazing up and around for a second or two, threw himself into a low, leather-strapped chair before the fire. As he sits there, let us take the opportunity of sketching the singular being. His face was an impressive one. The chin was long and pointed, the jaw firm. The lips were set as those of a taciturn man, but not grimly, and their corners bore two lines as of old smiles that had buried their joys there forever. A long and rather heavy nose, sensitive at the nostrils. High cheek bones. A good forehead, but rather too flattened at the temples. Long, thin meshes of white hair escaping through the border of tfe THE WOLFS CRY. the high fox-skin cap. The complexion was bronze and the face beardless. This last feature is said to be characteristic of low vitality, but it is also frequently distinctive of eccentricity, and Batoche was clearly eccentric, as the expression of his eyes showed. They were cold grey eyes, but filled with wild intermittent illuminations. The reflection of the fire-light gave them a weird appearance. Batoche sat for fully half an hour in front of the fire, his long thin hands thrust into his pockets, his fox-skin cap dashed to one side of his head and his eyes steadily fixed upon the flames. Although immoveable, he was evidently a prey to profound emotions, for the lurid light, playing upon his face, revealed the going and coming of painful thoughts. Now and then he iTjuttered something in a half articulate voice which the black cat seemed to understand, for it purred awhile in its circular nest, then rising, rounded its back, and looked up at its master with tender inquiry in its green eyes. But Batoche had no thought for Velours to-night. His mind was entirely occupied with little Blanche who, having gone into Quebec upon some errands, as was her wont, had not yet returned. The wind moaned dismally around the little hut, at times giving it a wrench as if it would topple it from its foundations. The spruces and firs in the neighborhood creaked and tossed in the breath of the tempest, and there was a dull, heavy roar from the head of the Falls. Suddenly, amid all these sounds, the solitary old man's quick ear caught a peculiar cry coming from the direction of the road. It was a sharp, shrill bark, followed by a low whine. He sat up, bent his head and listened again. Velour's fur stood on end, and its whisker bristled like wire. The sound was heard again, made clearer and more striking by a sudden rush of wind. *' A wolf, a wolf ! " exclaimed Batoche, as he sprang from his seat, seized his gun from its hooks and rushed out of the house. He did not hesitate one moment as to the mn^m 46 THE BASTONNAIS. I! direction which he should take, but bent his steps to the main road. " Never. Oh, it can never be," he gasped, as he hurried along. " God would never throw her into the wolfs em- brace." — He reached the road at last, and paused on its border to listen. He was not disappointed, for within one hundred or two hundred yards of him, he heard for the third time the ominous yelp of the wolf Then all the hunter showed itself in Batoche. He became, at once, a new man. The bent form straightened, the' languid limbs became nerved, the sinister eyes shot fire, as if lighting the way before them, and the blank melancholy features were turned and hardened into one single expression — watching. In a moment he had determined the exact direction of the sound. Cautiously he advanced from tree to tree, with inaudible footfall and bated breath, until he reached the outskirts of a thicket. There he expected to bring the wolf to bay. He peered long and attentively through the branches. " It is a den of wolves," he whispered to himself. " Not one pair of eyes, but four or five pairs are glancing through the dark. I must make quick work of the vermin. They must not be allowed to take their residences for the winter so near my cabin." Saying which he raised his carbine to his shoulder and pointed. His finger was upon the trigger and was about to let go, when he felt the barrel of his gun bent from its position and quietly but firmly deflected towards the ground. " Don't be a fool, Batoche. Keep your ammunition for other wolves than these. You will soon need it all," said a voice in a low tone. The hunter immediately recognized Barbin, a farmer of Beauport. " What are you doing here?" , *&»-- . THE WOLF S CRY. :ir ** No time for questions to-night. You will know later." " And who are those in the thicket yonder?" " My friends and yours." Batoche shook his head dubiously, and muttered something about going forward to satisfy himself by personal inspection. He was an enemy of prowlers of all sorts, and must know with whom he had to deal before abandoning the search. A low whistle was heard and the thicket was instantaneously cleared. Barbin tried to retain him, but the old man's temper rose, and he snatched himself away. " Don't be a fool, I say to you again, Batoche.- You know who I am and you must understand that I would not be out in such a place and on such a night without necessary cause. These are my friends. For sufficient reasons, they must not be known at present. Believe me, and don't advance further. Besides they are now invisible." " But why these strange cries ? " "The bark of the wolf is our rallying cry." "The wolf!" " Do you understand now ?" The old man passed his hand rapidly over his forehead and his eyes, then grounding his musket, and seizing Barbin by the collar, he exclaimed : " You don't mean it. I knew it would come, but did not expect it so soon. The wolf, you said ? Ah ! sixteen years are a long time, but it passes, Barbin. We are old now, yet not broken — " He would have continued in this strain, but his interlocutor suddenly stopped him. " Yes, yes, Batoche, it is thus. Make yourself ready, as we are doing. But I must go. My companions are waiting for me. We have important work to do to-night." " And I ?" asked the old man reproachfully. ■i m. wmm§ 48 THE BASTONNAIS. " Your work, Batoche, is not now, but later, not here, but elsewhere. Be quiet ; you have not been forgotten." Barbin then disappeared in the wood, while Batoche slowly returned toward the road, shaking his head, and saying to himself : " The wolf ! I knew it would come, but who would have thought it ? Will my violin sing the old song to me to-night ? Will Clara glide under the waterfall?" . fiM THE CASKET. 49 X. THE CASKET. Little Blanche had not been forgotten all this time. The old man when he reached the road, looked in the direction of Quebec for a moment, as if hesitating whether to turn his steps in that direction. But he apparently changed his mind, for he deliberately walked across the road, and plunged into the narrow path leading to his cabin. When he arrived there, he saw a horse and sleigh standing a little away from it under the trees. He paid no attention to them, however, and walked up to the door, which was opened for him by little Blanche. Bending down, he kissed her on the forehead, laid his hand upon her hair, and said : " It is well, child, but why so late?" " I could not return earlier, grandpapa." ** Who detained you ?" . She pointed to a muffled figure seated in a shaded angle of the room. Still trailing his carbine in his left hand, Batoche walked up to it. The figure rose, extended its hand and smiled sadly. " You don't know me, Batoche ?" The old man looked into the face of the stranger for a long time, then the light of recognition came and he exclaimed : " I must be mistaken. It cannot be." " Yes, it is I—" "M. Belmont!" " Yes, Batoche, we remember each other, though we have not met for some years. You live the life of an anchorite here, never coming to the city, and I remain in retirement, scarcely mm ■PP 1 111! 1 1 r t c; f 1 1 J SO THE BASTONNAIS. ever going from the city. We are almost strangers, and yet we are friends. We must be friends now, even if we were not before." The old man did not reply, but asked his visitor to sit down, while he, having hung up his weapon, and drawn a chair to the fire-place, took a seat beside him. The fire had burned low and both were seated in the deep shadow. Blanche had offered to light a candle, but the men having refused by a sign, the child sat down on the other side of the hearth with the black cat circled on her lap. " I brought back the child to you," said M. Belmont, by way of opening the conversation. " She was in good hands with Pauline, her godmother, but we knew that she never spent a night out of your hermitage, and that you wor' be anxious if she did not return." " Oh, Blanche is like her old grandfather. She knows every path in the forest, every sign of the heavens, and no weather could prevent her from finding her home. I have no fear that man or beast would hurt the little creature. Indeed, she has the mark of Providence upon her and no harm will come to her so long as my life is spared. There is a spirit in the waterfall yonder, M. Belmont, which watches over her and the protection is inviolable. But I thank you, sir, and your daughter for having taken care of her. " I kept her for another reason, Batoche," and M. Belmont looked furtively at his companion, who returned his glance in the same dubious fashion. " It gave me the opportunity of paying you a visit which, for special reasons, is of the greatest importance to me." Batoche seemed to divine the secret thought of his guest, and put him immediately at his ease by saying : " I am a poor solitary being, M. Belmont, severed from all the world, cut off from the present, living only in the past, and hoping for nothing in the future except the welfare of this little THE CASKET. Rt id yet we were not or to sit n a chair d burned iche had jy a sign, with the mont, by )d hands ver spent ; anxious >ws every ) weather fear that she has come to spirit in her and ind your Belmont lance in it which, orphan girl. Nobody cares for me, and I have cared for no- body, but I am ready to do you any service in my power. I have learned a secret to-night, and — who knows? — perhaps life has changed for me during the last hour." M. Belmont listened attentively to these words. He knew in the presence of what strange being he was, and that the language which he heard had perhaps a deeper meaning than ai)peared upon the surface. But the manner of l^atoche was quiet in its earnestness, his eye had none of its strange fire, and there was no wild incoherent gesture of his to indicate that he was speaking outside of his most rational mood. M. Belmont therefore contented 'limself with thanking the hermit for his good will. A lull then ensued in the conversation, when suddenly a low howl was heard in the forest beyond the high road. By a simultaneous impulse, both men sprang to their feet and glared .i each other. Little Blanche's head had fallen on her shoulder and she was sweetly sleeping unconscious of nil harm, while Velours, though, she stirred once or twice, would not abandon her warm bed on her mistress' knees. "Wolf!" muttered Batoche. "Wolf!" replied M. Belmont. And the two men fell into each other's embrace. "We are brothers once more," said M. Belmont, pressing the hand of the old man, while the tears flowed down his cheeks. " Yes, and in the holiest of causes," responded Batoche. " There is no more mystery between us now," resumed M. Belmont. " That call was for me. I must be away at once. I have delayed too long already. What I came to you particularly for, Batoche, was this." And he produced, from the interior of his huge wild-cat overcoat, a small casket bound with clasps of silver. " In this small casket, Batoche, are all my family relics and treasures. For my money I care nothing ; for this I care so much that I would give my life rather than that it should w^^'^^mim mmm^ ^^mm 52 THE BASTONNAIS. 1^ perish. You are the man to hide it for me. You know of secret places which no mortal can penetrate. I confide it to you. This has been a dark day for me ; what to-morrow has in store I almost fear to guess. The times will probably go hard with all of us, including you, Batoche. For ourselves the loss will be nothing. We are old and useless. But Pauline and little Blanche ! They must survive the ruin. Should I perish, this casket is to go to my daughter, and should you too come to grief, entrust the secret of its hiding place to Blanche that she may deliver it. Take it, and good night. I must go." Without wailing for a word of reply, M. Belmont embraced the old man on the cheek, stooped to imprint a kiss on the forehead of the sleeping child, rushed out of the cabin, threw himself into his cariole and drove away. As he disappeared, the same low cry of the wolf was borne plaintively from the forest. I I THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERFALL. 53 XI. THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERFALL. Batoche gave a single moment to deliberation. He stood silently holding the latch of the closed door. Then he walked slowly across the room and entered behind the chintz curtains of the little alcove. What he did there is unknown, but when he issued forth his face was hard set, every lineament bearing the stamp of resolution. He took up the silver casket which had been left in his charge and balanced it in his hands. It was heavy, but heavier still appeared to him the responsibility which it entailed, if one might judge from the deep sigh which escaped hlr.i. He glanced at little Blanche, but she still slum- bered quietly, with her head resting on the wall and bent over her shoulder. Velours was more wakeful, looking furtively at her master from the corners of her eyes but, knowing his habits well, she did not deem it prudent to stir from her nest or make any noise. " There is a place of all others," murmured Batoche, " where I may hide this beyond all fear of detection. There neither the birds of the air, nor the beasts of the forests, nor the eye of man will ever discover it. Blanche only will know, but I will not tell her now. She sleeps and it is well." He then placed the casket under his arm and stole out of the house. He took a footpath leading from his cabin to the Falls, and having reached their summit, turned to the right, descending from one rock to another, until he reached the depths of the basin. There he paused a moment, looking up, as if to ascertain his bearings. An instant later, he had disap- peared under the Fall itself. Grasping the casket more tightly £ mmm ^mm wmm ymm 54 THE BASTONNAIS. under his right arm. he used his left to grope his way along the cold, wet wall of granite. The rocks underneath his feet, some round, some angular, some flat, were slippery with the ooze of the earth fissures above and the refluent foam of the cascade. Beside these dangers, there was the additional peril of darkness, the immense volume of descending waters effectually curtain- ing out the light of heaven. When he had attained about the middle of the distance between the two banks of the river, Batoche paused and stooped at the mouth of an aperture which would admit only his bent body. Without faltering, and as if sure of his locality, he thus entered into the subterranean cavity. He was gone for fully half an hour, but when he issued forth, he straightened himself up with ease, and by the assist- ance of his two hands, rapidly retraced his steps to the foot of the Falls. There he stopped, looking above and around him, to assure himself that he was really alone with his secret. But no, he was not alone. Upon the brow of the waterfall, along the perilous ridge, where the torrent plunges sheer into the chasm below, a fragile figure in white glided slowly with face turned towards him. Her yellow hair, bound with a fillet about her forehead, fell loose upon her shoulders ; there was the light of love in her eyes and a sweet smile irradiated her lips. Her white hands hung at her sides, and from under the hem of her flowing garb, a tiny, snowy foot appeared barely touching the surface of the water. What was it — a phantom or a reality ? A mockery of the vapor and the night, or a spirit of God truly walking over the waters ? We cannot say, or rather we shall not stop to inquire. Enough that the poor old hermit saw it, and seeing, was trans- ported into ecstacy. His whole being appeared transfused into the ethereal vision which shone before him. The gross out- lines of old age and shabby costume were melted into the beautiful forms of exultation and reverence. Under the misty moon, under the faint light of the stars, he fell upon his knees, THE SPIRIT OF THE WATERFALL. 65 stretched out his arms, and his face turned eagerly upwards in the absorption of prayer. " Once more, O Clara ! Once more, O my daughter ! It is long since I have seen you, and my days have passed sadly in the lonesomeness of solitude. You come once more to smile upon your old father, and bring a blessing upon your orphan child. She sleeps sweetly yonder near the hearth. Protect her from the harm which I know must be impending and of which your visitation is the warning. You are the guardian angel of my cabin, shielding it from all the dangers which have threatened it these many years. Give me a sign of your as- sistance and I shall be content." These were the words the old man uttered as he knelt upon the wet rocks. Let no one smile as he reads them, for even the ravings of a diseased brain are beautiful when they have a spiritual significance. Batoche rose and advanced nearer, with arms still outstretch- ed, as if he would clasp the Spirit of the Waterfall, and seize the token which he implored. But in this he was disap- pointed. Not a word her lips did utter, and without a start or tlutter, She crossed her hands upon her bosom in the attitude of prayer ; And his stricken soulbeguihng with the sweetness of her smiling, Raised her bright eyes up to heaven, and slowly melted into air. A thick bank of cloud floated in the sky, veiling the moon. The stars paled, and it was very dark. The great Falls thun- dered with a sullen roar. The wind beat against the forest trees with a moan. The hermit knelt once more and engaged for a long time in silent prayer ; then rising, returned directly to his hut. He found little Blanche standing in the middle of the room and in the full light of the hearth, with a scared look in her brilliant, black eyes. He stooped to kiss her, and no- ticing the supper still untasted on the table, said : 1 1 I t 56 THE BASTONNAIS. " You have eaten nothing, my dear." " I cannot eat, grandpapa," " Then go to sleep. It is late." "I cannot sleep." The old man understood. The white wings of the mother's spirit had hovered over the child. " Then pray," he said. And dropping on her knees, little Blanche repeated all the prayers which her godmother, Pauline Belmont, had taught her. THREE RIVERS. 67 XII. THREE RIVERS. Roderick Hardinge's mission to Three Rivers was com- pletely successful. He found that town and the surrounding country in a state of alarm and excitement consequent on the march of events in the upper part of the province. The whole Richelieu peninsula was overrun with Continental troops and the Montreal district was virtually in their power. The only chance was that the British army might make a stand at Sorel, which commanded the Richelieu and the St. Lawrence, at the con- fluence of these two rivers, and accordingly around that point concentrated the interest of the war in the first week of No- vember. It was only natural, therefore, that* the people of Three Rivers should be in a turmoil of excitement, for if the British were unable to hold their own at Sorel, the whole ot the St. Lawrence would be swept by the Americans, and Three Rivers would be the very next place which they would occupy. The arrival of Hardinge was not calculated to allay the ex- citement, and the tidings which he brought were spread through the town that very night notwithstanding all attempts at official secrecy. The Commandant of the town was considerably alarmed. " The news from above was bad enough," he said to his principal secretary, after reading Hardinge's despatches, " but the intelligence from below is not more reassuring. Three Rivers thus finds itself between two fires. Montgomery from the west, and now Arnold from the east. I am very much afraid that we shall have to succumb. And the worst of all is that being masters of the intervening country, with emissaries in all e l II 58 THE BASTONNAIS. the villages along their route, they improve their opportunity by tampering with our simple-minded farmers. Here in Three Rivers the disaffection among our own people is already quite marked, and I very much fear that this new source of danger will only increase it." The secretary was a very old man who listened attentively to his superior, biting the feathers of his pen and giving other signs of nervous excitement. " I am certain, sir, that you do not exaggerate the situation," he said, speaking slowly, but with emphasis. " We are on the eve of a crisis, and I suspect that this time next week the town of Three Rivers will be in the hands of the Bastonnais. ' We have no means of resistance, and even if we had, there is too much dissension in our midst to attempt it with any hope of success. The next question which arises is whether it were best for you to provide for your own safety as well as that of the archives and registers of the town." " I will do neither," replied the Commandant with dignity. "As for myself, the duty of my office is to remain in charge until I am dispossessed by force. Personal violence I do not fear, but should I be subjected to such, I will endure it. Repiember that you and I know what war is. We both passed through the terrible years of the Conquest. With respect to the archives, you will see that they are properly guarded, but they must not be removed. The enemy are not barbarians. On the con- trary it is their policy to conciliate as much as possible. Be- sides, they will only pass through Three Rivers." " They will do more than that, sir. As they intend to march upon Quebec, around whose walls they will more than probably spend the winter, it will be a matter of military necessity for them to occupy all the little towns and villages on their route between Quebec and Montreal, both for the sake of their commissariat and as recruiting stations." " Recruiting stations ! Don't use those hateful words." THREE RIVERS. 59 " They are hateful words, sir. But they express a fact which we must face. Unless we are very careful, this war will be aggravated by the circumstance of many of our countrymen turning their arms against us." This conversation which we have briefly introduced in order to afford the reader glimpses of the situation, relieved as much as possible from the dryness of mere historical detail, was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger who delivered a letter to the Governor. " This is from Sorel," exclaimed the official. " It comes just in time to throw light upon our affairs and will enable Lieutenant Hardinge, who returns to-morrow, to bring the latest news to Quebec." Saying which, he read the despatch. iU i 60 THE BASTONNAIS. XIII. A SUCCESSFUL I?IISSION. At ten o'clock, on the morning of the 8th November, the day after his arrival, Roderick Hardinge presented himself at the residence of the Commandant of Three Rivers. It was the hour agreed upon between them for a conference, which circumstance did not prevent the Commandant from mani- festing some surprise on seeing thfc young officer. " You surely are not ready to start for Quebec already?" he asked. " If possible, sir, I should very much like to do so. My horse is not as fresh as he was yesterday, and he will delay me longer, and besides ]! think my presence will be required in Quebec before midnight." * Very well. Time is pressing, I know. I have jotted down a few lines giving Lieutenant-Governor Cramahe all the infor- mation in my possession. Here is the letter. But you have doubtless wandered about the town a little this morning, and thus learned many details which have escaped me." " I have heard much more than I am willing to believe,'' said Hardinge, with a laugh. " Tell me briefly what you have heard, and I will correct or confirm it." " I have heard that Montreal has fallen." " Not yet. Montgomery is still on the plateau between St. Johns, which he captured about a week ago, and Montreal, which is his next point of attack. But there are two obstacles which retard him. The first of these is the skirmishing of the British troops on his flank, and the second, the discontent A SUCCESSFUL MISSION. 61 1 correct or among his own soldiers. Many men from" Vermont and New York have returned home. Montreal is, however, really defenceless, and cannot hold out more than a few days, especially as Montgomery is anxious to get there in order to house and clothe his naked, suffering men. What else have you heard?" " That the French of Montreal are secretly working for the enemy." " It is false. Those who told you so are treacherous friends, and we have several here in Three Rivers. Next?" " That the Indians under LaCorne have dug up the hatchet which they buried in the Recollets church, one month ago, and declared against us." " That would be terrible news if true, but it is not true. My last courier from the west, who arrived not an hour ago, has particular information from the Indians about Montreal. They still maintain the neutrality pledged in the Recollets church. I admit, however, that it would not take much to turn them into foes, and I know that Montgomery has already his emissaries among them. But LaCorne is a true Frenchman, and so long as our own people retain their allegiance, he will maintain his." After a pause, Hardinge said : '* I have heard, sir, in addition, that Colonel McLean, at the head of his Highlanders, has not been able to form a junction with Governor Carleton, at Longueuil, so as to intercept Montgomery between St. Johns and Montreal." " It is true." " That, owing to the defeat of Governor Carleton at Longueuil by a Vermont detachment, and the spread of Continental troops through the Richelieu peninsula, Colonel McLean was forced to fall back precipitately to Sorel." *' That is unfortunately too true. Do you know more ?" "That is all." *' Then, I will tell you more. McLean will have to retreat i 62 THE HARTONNAIS. from Sorel. My co'ureurs des bois and Indian messengers have been arriving in succession all last night and this morning. They inform me that while Montgomery is marching on Montreal, a considerable body, under one of his best officers, is moving towards Sorel, with a view of occupying it, and thus commanding the river. McLean is in no condition to with- stand this attack. What will hasten his retreat is the news he has by this time received from Quebec. Last night, so soon as I had read the despatches which you brought me, I sent him one of my fleetest messengers with the intelligence. The messenger must have reached Sorel early this morning. The special messenger to Governor Carleton, with the same news, will arrive in Montreal about noon to day." During the whole of this conversation, Hardinge's face had been grave and almost downcast. But at the last words of his interlocutor, it suddenly flushed with an expression of en- thusiasm. " If Colonel McLean and Governor Carleton know exactly how we stand at Quebec, I am content," he exclaimed. " Then you may be content. I have stated all this briefly to Lieutenant-Governor Cramahe, but you may repeat it to him with emphasis." " I will not fail." And after a few parting words, he respectfully took his leave. When he had cleared the streets of Three Rivers, and was alone upon the road, he could not restrain a long, loud whoop of exultation. " The game is up," he cried. " The war is in full blaze. In twenty-four hours, my name has gone from one end of the province to the other. My mission has indeed succeeded. How proud little Pauline will be of her cavalier." With such thoughts uppermost in his mind, he forgot his bodily fatigue, and rode back to Quebec with more eagerness than he had gone from it. CROSSING THE nOATS. 63 XIV. CROSSING THE BOATS. Notwithstanding the late hour at which he arrived in Que- bec — it was considerably after midnight — Hardinge repaired directly to the Chateau St. Louis. There was no bustle in the Castle, but his eye noticed signs of unusual vigilance. The guard about the entry was a double one, and many of the low- er windows were lighted. It was evident also that his coming was expected, for, immediately on his dismounting, his horse was taken charge of by a soldier, and he was at once ushered into the presence of the Lieutenant-Governor. Cramahe was in the Council chamber, and several members of the Council were seated around the centre table, on which was spread a number of papers. " Welcome back. Lieutenant," said the Governor, with a weary smile and extending both his hands. Hardinge bowed and at once delivered his despatches. Cramahe' having rapidly glanced over them, handed them to his colleagues, then turning to the young officer, said : *' It is clear that the storm which has been gathering over this province must break upon Quebec. This is the old city of destiny. And we shall accept our destiny. Lieutenant." said the Governor, rising from the table, and advancing toward Roderick. " We have not been idle during your absence. Much can be done in a day and a half, and we have done it. We have done so much that we can await the arrival of Arnold with some assurance. I see, however, from the despatches you bring me, that Colonel McLean is in some danger at Sorel. I had calculated on his arrival and that of Governor r ^54 THE UASTONNAIS. Carleton who knows our exact position by this time. Should they have come to harm, it will go hard with us, but we will do our best all the same." Hardinge replied that he was exceedingly glad to hear this, because the people of the upper country, through which he had ridden, looked to Quebec for the ultimate salvation of the pro- vince. It was pretty well understood that the rest of the country was lost. " Your despatches make that painfully clear," replied the Governor, " and increase our responsibility. I rely upon you particularly. Lieutenant. I api)reciate so much all that you have done, that I look to you for something more. This is our last day, remember." " Our last day ?" " Yes, Arnold will be at Point Levis to-morrow." Hardinge could not help smiling. " You may well smile. Your prediction was correct. I saw Donald last night. He had been hovering around the enemy all day and informed me that by direct and forced marches they would surely be at Levis to-morrow. This being the case, I have a duty for you to perform. But first, you must take some rest." " I will be ready for orders at daylight, Your Excellency." " Ten o'clock will be quite early enough. Tf wo )rked during the dark we should excite too 'nur' city is really ignorant of what is imp many rumors. The excitement of yc .day ii sided, and it would be very unwise to icnew it, therefore, you will quietly cross to the other side of the river, with two or three of your men, and under pretence of wanting them for some service or other — I leave you to imagine plausible pretext — you will cause every species of embarkatic canoe, skiff, flat-boat or punt, to be taken over to this side Not a floating plank must be left at Levis. If Arnold wants to rhe ^u J re are enti.oly sub- At ten o'clock I CROSSING THE BOATS. 65 get over," he will have to hew his l)oals out of the trees of the forest. Donald will be there to assist you, and may possibly be in i)ossession of fresh news." Roderick thanked Mis Excellency for entrusting to him this task which he regarded as the crowning act of the services which he had been rendering the cause of his country in the past two days. After giving expression to his obligation, he added : " The removal of the boats, sir, will give us three or four days of respite, for I suppose Donald repeated to you that Ar- nold has no artillery and must procure boats if he really intends to attack the city. In the interval, we may look for Colonel McLean and (iovernor Carleton." The Lieutenant-Governor nodded assent, and ordering the subaltern to report to him when his work was done, he dismissed him to his quarters. When the appointed hour came, Hardinge set about his business which he conducted very quietly and judiciously. In those days everybody living on or near the river owned a boat which was almost the only conveyance whereby to reach the markets of Quebec. And the inhabitants had learned from the Indians how to use their craft with skill, so that women were as expert at the oars as men. Those who resided on the banks of the St. Lawrence usually kept their boats chained near a little house on the water's edge, where the women did their washing. The practice is maintained to this day along many parts of the river which are distant from large cities and where there are no ferries. Those who lived a short distance in the interior were in the habit of drawing their boats a little way into the woods, after they had used them, and leaving them there in some marked spot till they were required again. It thus happened that, at the time of which we write, there were perhaps no less than a thousand boats within a radius of three miles up and down from Quebec and on both sides of the St. :•!. I 1 1 'I ! 01' I ! i >i ill m^ 66 THE BASTONNAIS. Lawrence. Directly opposite the city there were probably about a hundred, rot belonging only to Point Levis, for that was then an insignificant village, but mostly to farmers of the neighboring parishes. The number was important if Arnold had been able to lay hold of the craft, but it gave Hardinge little or no diflficulty to dispose of. Some thirty or forty of them that were leaky, or otherwise disabled, he quietly broke up, sending the fragments afloat down the river. The remain- der he despatched over to the other side, at intervals and from different points, with the aid of a dozen men whom he had joined to his party. Operating thus from ten in the forenoon till five in the afternoon, he succeeded in clearing the south shore of all its boats, without exciting undue attention in the city. He himself came over with the last canoe, about twenty minutes after the sun had gone down and just as the twilight was creeping over the waters. As he neared the landing, he distinguished a female figure walking very slowly along the bank. He could not be mistaken. It was she. A few vigor- ous strokes of the jtaddle having brought the boat to its desti- nation, he leaped ashore and approached. Yes, it was Pauline. THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS. 67 XV. THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS. Swift as the lightning's flash are the instincts of love. Before a word had been spoken and without being able to read her face in the dusk, Roderick felt in his heart that Pauline's presence there was an omen of ill. But, like a true man, he smothered the suspicion and spoke out bravely. " Why, Pauline, what an agreeable surprise. How did you know that I had returned ? I should have sent you word this morning, but I was so occupied that it was impossible.... You probably heard it from others But I am so glad to see you How is your father ? And you, darling, I hope you are well " To these words of the young officer, broken by breathing spaces so as to admit of replies, not an answer was returned. But when he had finished, all that Pauline did was to stretch out her arms and lay her two ungloved hands in the hands of Hardinge, while her face look J imploringly into his and she murmured : "O, Roddy, Roddy!" They were then standing alone near the water, the two companions of Roderick having ascended to the city, (iently and silently, he drew the yielding form toward him until he could scan her features and learn in those eyes, which he knew so well, the secret of her sorrow. But the light of the eyes was totally quenched in tears, and the usually mobile face was veiled by a blank expression of misery. Hardinge was thunderstruck. All sorts of wild conjectures leaped through his brain. Ml '^^ :ii H hK ii ;l PH ! 68 THE BASTONNAIS. " Speak to me, Pauline, and tell me what this means," he said imploringly. " Has anything befallen you ? Has any one injured you ? Or am I the cause of this grief? " Still holding her extended hands clasped in his, and casting her eyes upon the ground, she replied : " O, Roddy, you cannot tell, and you will never know how wretched I am, but it is some comfort that I can speak to you at least once more." " At least once more !" These words quivered through him, chilling him from head to foot. " Pauline, I entreat you, explain the meaning of all this," he exclaimed. " It means, Roddy, that I who have never disobeyed my father, in my life, have had the weakness to disobey him this evening. I did not mean to do it. I did it unconsciously." " Disobeyed your father ?" " Yes, in seeing you again." " Surely, you do not mean — ?" " Alas ! dearest, I mean that my father has forbidden me ever to meet you." Roderick was so astonished that he staggered, and the power of utterance for a moment was denied him. At last he whispered falteringly : *' Really, there must be some mistake, Pauline." She shook her head, and looking up at him with a sad smile, replied : " Ah ! I also thought it was a mistake, but, Roddy, it is only too true. These two days I have brooded over it, and these two nights. To-day, hearing that you had returned, I could endure the burden no longer. I thought of writing to you, but I had not the heart to put the terrible injunction on paper. I have wandered the whole afternoon in the hope of meeting you. I walked as in a dream, feeling indeed that I was doing wrong, but with this faint excuse for my disobedience, THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS. 69 that, by telling you of it myself, I would spare you the terrible disgrace of being driven from my father's door, if you present- ed yourself there without knowing his determination. P'or myself such a misfortune would have been a death blow." Every word went burning to Roderick's heart, but he had to master his own agony a moment, in the effort to support Pauline who had utterly broken down. When she had recov- ered sufficiently, he protested tenderly that there was a mystery in all this which he was unable to fathom, and entreated her to help him discover it by telling him minutely all that had hap- pened since they had last met. She gradually summoned strength and composure enough to do so, relating in detail the scene in Cathedral squar'" ; the arrival of the Lieutenant-Gov- ernor's aide-de-camp ; his delivering of a letter to her father ; the conversation that took place between the latter and the of- ficer ; her father's visit to the Chateau ; his return therefrom ; and, relapsing into tears, she narrated how her father had found her reading a note from Roderick, and how he had ordered her to cast it into the fire. The young officer did not lose the significance of a word. At first the mystery remained as impenetrable as ever, but after a while a thread of suspicion wove itself into his brain. He tried to brush it away, however, by rubbing his hand violently over his brow and eyes. It was too painful. It was too odious. Finally, he asked : " Did your father give any reason why you should burn my note ?" " Ah ! Roddy, why do you force me to say it ? When I told him that you had sent him your regards, he replied * he has just sent me his hate ! ' " These words solved the mystery. Hardinge saw through it all, distinctly, sharply, unmistakeably. He drew a long breath, and his broad cnest swelled with the fresh air from the river. " Pauline, my dear," he said with that tender authority with ; 5 !i| 'I ! TO THE BASTONNAIS. ) ' I 1 I which a strong man can miraculously revive a weak, drooping woman, " Pauline, take heart. It fis all a terrible mistake and it will be explained. Your father has suspected me of a dreadful thing, but I am innocent and will convince him of it. I will see him this very night and make him and you happy." She raised her hands imploringly. " Fear nothing, darling, I am as certain as that we are stand- ing here together, that it is all a fearful misunderstanding, and that I will make it clear to your father, in a quarter of an hour's conversation." " But why not tell me, and I will tell him ?" " Because there are several points connected with the mat- ter with which you are not familiar, and because he might mis- construe both your motives and mine. No. It is a matter to be settled between man and man. Besides, it is late and your absence must not be prolonged- I, too, have a military report to make to the authorities without delay." Pauline suffered herself to be convinced, and the two, after a few mutual words of love, which wonderfully recuperated them, bent their way up Mountain Hill. At the gate they separated. " I will be with you within two hours," said Hardinge, as he took the direction of the Chateau. " Pauline stepped into the old church on her way, and in its consecrated gloom poured out a prayer at the feet of Her whom she worshipped as the Comforter of the Afflicted. Consolatrix AJJiictorum. THE ROUND TABLE. 71 XVI. THE ROUND TAHLE. Thkre was high festival at the Chateau St. Louis. Sieur Hector The'ophile Cramahe', Lieutenant-Governor of the Province of Quebec, and Commander of the Forces in the capital, during the absence of Guy Carleton, Captain General and Governor Chief, was a man of convivial spirit. He had for years presided over a choice circle of friends, men of wealth and standing in the ancient city. They were known as the Barons of the Round Table. An invariable rule with them was to dine together once a week, when they would rehearse the memories of old times, and conduct revels worthy of the famous Intendant Bigot himself. They numbered twenty-four, and it so happened that in five years not one of them had missed the hebdomadal banquet — a remarkable circumstance well worthy the attention of those who study the mathematical curiosities of the chapter of accidents. The ninth of November was dinner night. The Lieutenant- Governor had a moment's hesitation about the propriety of holding it, but all objections were at once drowned in a flood of valid reasons in favor of the repast. In the first place, His Excellency had been particularly burdened with the cares of office during the past two days. That young fellow Hardinge had kept him as busy as he could be. In the next place, though the citizens of Quebec really knew nothing of the true state of affairs, they were making all kinds of conjecture, and if the dinner did not take place, the gossips would hear of it immediately, and interpret it as the worst possible sign of impending trouble. In the third place, if the banquet were f: M 72 THE nASTONNAIS. postponed for a day or two, that villain Arnold might turn up and prevent it altogether. Cramahe paced up and down in his drawing room, rubbing his hands and smiling as these fancies flitted through his brain. If he had been serious, which he was not, his doubts would all have been dissipated by the arrival of the Barons almost in a body. Up they came through the spacious entrance and illuminated hall, in claret-colored coats, lace bosom-frills and cuffs, velvet breeches, silken hose, silver-buckled shoes, and powdered wigs, holding their gold- knobbed canes aslant in their left hand, and waving salutations to their host with their feathered tricorns. A lordlier band never ascended the marble stairs of Versailles. Hand- some for the most part, exquisite in manners, worldly in the elevated sense of the term, they represented a race which had transplanted the courtly refinement of the old world into the wilds of the new — a race the more interesting that it did not survive beyond the second generation after the Conquest, and is at present only seen at glimpses amid the wreck of the ancient seigniorial families about Quebec. It was not long before the company was ushered into the banquet hall, brilliantly lighted with waxen candles. A round table stood in the centre of the floor charged with a treasure of plate and crystal. There were twenty-four seats and a guest for every seat. We need not enter into the details of the entertainment. It is enough to state that it was literally festive with its succulent viands, its inspiriting wines and its dazzling cross-fire of wit and anecdote. The present was forgotten, as it should always be at well-regulated dinners ; the future was not thought of, for the diners were old men ; the past was the only thing which occupied them. They talked of their early loves, they laughed at their youthful escapades, they sang snatches of old songs, while now and again the memory of a common sorrow would circulate around the table, suddenly deadening its uproar into silence, or the remembrance of a mutual joy THF ROUND TAHF-E. 73 would flash merrily before their eyes like the glinting bubbles of their wine cups. It was five o'clock when the Barons sat down to their first course. It was nine when they reached the gloria. Just at that supreme moment, a waiter handed a paper to the Lieuten- ant-CiOvernor. He opened it, and having read it, exclaimed : " Another glass, gentlemen. The rebel Jockey will have to swim the St. Lawrence on horseback, if he wishes to pay us a visit." The allusion was readily understood and hailed with a bum- per. The note was from Hardingc who, on arriving at the Chateau and finding the Lieutenant-Governor engaged with his guests, wrote a line to inform him that he had safely crossed all the boats. As the matter was not particularly pressing, he had re- quested the orderly not to have the note delivered before nine o'clock. Scarcely had the noise of the toast subsided, when another waiter advanced with another note. " This news will not be as good as the other," whispered one of the Barons to his neighbor, while the host was reading the despatch. " And why, pray ?" '* Because alternation is the law of life." The old Baron was not mistaken. M. Cramahd perused the paper with a very grave face, and folding it slowly, said : *' My friends, I regret that I must leave you for to-night. lUit first, let us sip our cognac with the hope that nothing will prevent us from meeting again next week." A few moments later the guests had retired. The message which the Lieutenant-Governor had received was from the faithful Donald who informed him that the enemy had arrived within five miles of Point Levis and encamped for the ni"ht. F I I flHi V I 74 'IMK liASIONNAIS. XVII. A NOBLE REPARATION. After leaving the Chateau, Roderick Hardinge repaired to his quarters, where he refreshed himself with a copious suj)per and then arrayed himself in civilian evening dress for his visit to M. Belmont. His mind was intensely occupied with the details of Pauline's conversation at the waterside, but his love for her was so ardent, and he felt so strong in the consciousness of duty accomplished, that he experienced no serious misgiv- ings as to the result of the interview which he was about to hold. His feeling, however was the reverse of enthusiastic. The more he reflected on the incident, the more he appreciated both the extent of M. Belmont's mistake and the profundity of the wound that must rankle in his proud spirit. He, therefore, resolved to hold himself purely on the defensive and to enter upon explanations to the simple extent of direct replies to di- rect charges. The stake was Pauline herself On her account he was prepared to push prudence to the limit of his own hu- miliation, and to make every concession that would not directly clash with his loyalty as a soldier. Having fully made u]) his mind on these points, he threw his long military cloak over his shoulders and issued from the bar racks. In less than ten minutes, he found himself at the doot of M. Belmont's residence. In spite of all his resolution, he, paused before the lower step and looked about him with tha: ' vague feeling of relief which a moment's delay always afford^ on the threshold of disagreeable circumstance. The lowe: portion of the house was silent and dark, but above, a fain; light appeared in the window of Pauline's room. In otlu: A NOBLE REPARATION. 75 e repaired to pious supper for his visit ied with the but his love :onsciousness rious misgiv- tvas about to enthusiastic, le appreciated profundity of He, therefore, and to enter replies to di- >n her account his own hu- id not directly J ,, he threw hii from the bar f at the dooi esolution, hc^| lim with tha;,] ilways affords The lowc: ibove, a fain: m. In otlu; days, that light had been his beacon and guiding star, beckon- ing him from every part of the city and attracting him away from the society of all other friends. In other days, when he approached, that light would suddenly rise to the ceiling, flash along the stairway and hall, and meet him glistening at the open door, held high over Pauline's raven hair. But to-night, he knew that he could expect no such welcome. He summoned all his courage, however, and struck the hammer. The door was opened by the maid, but as the vestibule remained in dark- ness, she did not recognize him. " Is M. Belmont at home ?" he asked in a low voice. " Yes, sir, he is." " Is he visible ?" The maid hesitated a moment, then said falteringly, " I will see, sir," and left him standing in the obscure passage. Without loss of time, M. Belmont himself stepped forward. Bowing stiffly and looking up in the vain attempt to distinguish the features of his visitor, he said : " To whom am I indebted for this call ?" There was a tone of sarcasm in the query which almost threw Roderick off his guard. He saw that M. Belmont was racked by suspicions and must be approached with caution. He, therefore, extended his right hand and said : *' M. Belmont, do you not know me ?" That gentleman did not accept the proferred hand, but step- ping backward and drawing himself up to his full height, ex- claimed : " Lieutenant Hardinge !" Roderick made a slight inclination, but said nothing. M. Belmont continued : " Do you come here, sir. in your military capacity ?" For all answer, Hardinge threw open his long cloak. " Ah ! you are in citizen's dress. Then I cannot understand the object of your visit. If you came as an officer of the King, fe "k^O li ! I 76 THE BASTONNAIS. the house would be yours and you could do as you liked. But if you come as a private citizen, I would remind you that this house is mine and that I will do as I like. To-night, I would particularly like not to be disturbed." This was said with a polite sneer which cut the young officer to the f^uick, but he contained himself, and began quietly : " M. Belmont . . . ." " Sir," was the sharp interruption, " I have given no ex- planations and require none. You will oblige me by . . . .," and he finished the sentence with a wave of his hand toward the door. Roderick did not stir, but made another attempt to be heard. " Really, M. Belmont . . . ." " Sir, do you mean to force yourself upon me ? I know that there is a sort of martial law in the city. You are an officer. You may search my house from cellar to garret. You may quarter yourself in it. You may detain me as a prisoner. In fact, you may do whatever you please. If such is your inten- tion, say so, and I will not resist. But if such is not your in- tention, I stand by my right of inviolability. Your boast is that every British subject's house is his own castle. My desire is to maintain this privilege in the present instance." At this third summons of ejection, Hardinge's equanimity was completely shaken, and he was about to turn on his heel when, on looking up, his eye caught the hem of a white dress fluttering at the head of the stair. The sight suddenly altered his determination. Pauline was there listening to the interview upon which the future of both depended, and her presence was omnipotent to nerve his courage, as well as to inspire him with the means of successfully extricating himself from his difficult position. Roderick at once resolved to change his tactics. Drawing his cloak tightly across his chest and flinging the border of the cape over his right shoulder, in the manner of a man who has come to a decision, he said calmly : I! A NOBLE REPARATION. 77 ** M. Belmont, I cannot be treated thus. I must be heard." These words were slightly emphasized, but without bluster or defiance, and they had a visible effect on the listener, for he immediately folded his arms as if to listen. Hardinge con- tinued : " It is true, sir, that I came to your house as a private citizen and as a presumed old friend of your family," M. Belmont uttered a moan and made a gesture of de- precation. ** But since it is plain that my presence in that capacity is distasteful, I will add now that I am also here in my quality as a soldier. The object of my visit is really a military* one, and as such I beg you to hear me." "Why did you not say so at first?" exclaimed M. Belmont with a bitter laugh. " Mr. Hardinge I do not know. Lieu- tenant Hardinge I canm choose but hear. Lieutenant, please step into my parlor." Lights were immediately brought into that apartment and the two took their stand before the fire-place, Hardinge having declined a seat. Glancing at M. Belmont, Roderick was shocked at the change that had come upon him within three days. He seemed like another man, his features being pinched, his eyes sunken, and his manner quick and nervous. The normal calm of his demeanor was gone, and his stately courtesy was replaced by a restless petulance of hands. He stood uneasily near the mantel waiting for the young officer to speak. Hardinge at length said : " M. Belmont, this interview shall be brief, because it is painful to both of us. Indeed, so far as I am concerned, there is only one word to say, and it is this — that, although I have had some important military duties to perform in the last few days, not one of these was or could be directed against you," M. Belmont looked dubiously at Hardinge and shook his head, but answered nothing. Roderick bit his lip and resumed : i [ !i 78 THE UASTONNAIS. " The statement that I make, sir, though l)rief, covers the whole ground of your suspicions and accusations. I know what these are and hence my statement is very deHberatc. I ask you to accept it as my complete defence." M. IJelmont looked into the fire and still kept silent. " Must I construe your silence as incredulity, sir? If so, I will instantly leave your house, nevermore to enter it. But before taking what to me will be a fatal step, I must observe that I had never believed that a i)erfect French gentleman like you, M. Helmont, would doubt the faith of a British officer like me, and my distress will be intensified by the reflection that your daughter, who formerly favored me with her esteem, will hereafter see in me only the brand of dishonor stamped upon my character by her own father. For her sake I will say no more, but take my departure at once." At these words there were heard the rustling of a dress and suppressed sobs outside the parlor door. Both the men noticed the sounds and instinctively looked at each other. The eyes of Hardinge were suffused with tears, while those of M. Belmont mellowed with an expression of solemn pity. " Stay, Lieutenant," he said in a low voice. " It strikes me all at once that my silence may possibly be unjust. If I thought your statement embraced all the circumstances of the case, I should not hesitate to accept it, Ijat I fear that you do not know how far my grievances extend." " I am certain that I know all," said Hardinge in a significant tone, which was not lost upon his interlocutor, who immediately subjoined : " This can be easily ascertained if you will answer me a few questions. You called upon Lieutenant-Governor Cramah^ early on the morning of the seventh ? " " I did so." " You delivered to him a parcel of letters purporting to have come from Colonel Arnold, the commander of the Bastonnais ?" ~L A NOni.F REPARATION. 79 V " Yes, sir." " Some of those letters were addressed to citizens of Quebec?" ** They were." " You know the names of those citizens?" " I do not." " Did not the Lieutenant-( Governor open the letters before you." " He did." " And read them ?" " Yes, and read them." M. Hehnont's hp curled in scorn and his eyes darted fire at Hardinge, who responded with a smile : " The Lieutenant-Governor opened and read the letters in my presence and, after reading, made his comments aloud, but in no instance did he reveal the name of the persons to whom the letters were addressed, so that I am, to this moment, in profound ignorance of them. Except by inference from what has occurred between us, I should not know that one of those letters was addressed to you, and, indeed, as yet I have no positive proof that such was the case." " Such is the case," cried M. Belmont in a voice of thunder. " I received such a letter and it has brought me into trouble. I was summoned to the Chateau in the face of the whole city. I have been suspected and threatened, and the consecjuence is that I have been driven to. ..." ** Stop, M. Belmont," said Hardinge t|uietly, and interposing his hand. " Tell me nothing of your plans. I do not want to know them. I will do my duty to my King and Country. I believe you will do yours, but should your principles lead you to another course, I prefer to ignore the fact, and thus avoid becoming your enemy." " You are not and will not be my enemy," exclaimed M. Belmont, clasping the extended hand of Hardinge in both of his, and then embracing him on the cheek. " I owe you a full I I. i 't.i ' ff^ '• h 80 THE r.ASTONNAIS, apology. My suspicions were cruelly unjust, but you have dispelled them. My treatment of you this evening was out rageous, and I beg you to pardon me. Your explanations are thoroughly satislactory. You did your duty as a soldier in delivering those letters to the lieutenant-Governor, and even if you had known to whom they were addressed, your obligation would have been no less." " I did net need to be told my duty," said llardinge with just a shade of haughtiness, which he immediately qualified by adding, " but I am flattered to know that I have the approval of one v/ho has always appeared to me a model of honor." " You have my unqualified ai)proval, Lieutenant. Although you were the indirect instrument of the crisis through which I am passing, 1 am satisfied that you are clear of the imputation of traitor and spy to me which I had charged upon you in my indignation and despair. We are on the eve of important events. Within a few days war with all its anxieties and horrors will be upon us. You have high duties to perform both as a citizen and a soldier. Perform them with all the energy or your nature. It is your sacred duty. I v> ill watch your course with the deepest interest. Your successes will be a source ot personal pleasure to rne, and I sincerely trust that no harm will befall you." Roderick ",vab quite overcome by this cordial speech, which was to him move t'lan a reparation for all he had endured during the interview. He rejoiced, too, at his own perspicacity in having so accurately divined the real cause of M. Iklmont's misunderstanding. It was lamentable, indeed, that Arnold's letters which he had deliveied to the Lieutenant-Ciovernor should have implicated M. lielmont — if they did implicate him, a fact of which he had yet no proof, and which he still icfused to credit — but they had been the means of awakening the authorities to a sense of the peril with which Quebec was threater^ed, and that was some couii)ensation for what he had i 1 A NOBLE REPARATION. 81 suffered. But there was, however, another com[»ensation for which he longed, notwithstanding that the hour was considerably advanced and he had to return to his quarters. Aj^proaching closer to M. Belmont, with a pleasantly malicious smile on his lips, he said : " I have to thank you, sir, for the kind words which you liave spoken. I regard them in the light of the reinration which I knew you would not withhold so soon as you became acquainted with the facts, but you will excuse me for saying that there is just one little thing wanting to make the reparation complete." M. Belmont looked up in some surprise, but when he saw the expression on Roderick's face, he comprehended the allusion at once, and replied with genuine French good-humor and vivacity : '' Oh, of course, there is a woman in the case. You want to be rehabilitated in the eyes of Pauline as well. It is is only just, and it shall be done. I told her all my suspicions against you, and repeated all my charges to her. And, by the way, that reminds me that I never told anybody else about the matter. How, then, pray, did it come to your ears? You must have known of it before you came here to-night." " I did, sir, and came expressly on that account." " Who in the world could have told you ? " Hardinge broke ort into a hearty laugh. The laugh was re-echoed by ;i silvery voice in the passage. " Treason is indeed rampant," roared out M. Belmont, cheerily. '' A man's worst enemies are those of his own household." .S.tying which, he advanced rapidly to the door and opened it wide. I'auline stood before him, her eyes swimming iji tears, but with a sn\»le of ineffable joy playing on her white lips. " Don't embrace me, don't speak to me," said M. Belmont, with mock gravHy. " I will hear no explanations. Settle the I i in i I 1 II !i III! 82 THE HASTONNAIS. matter with this gentleman here. If he forgives you, as he has forgiven your father, then I will see what I can do for you." He went out of the room, leaving Pauline and Roderick together for a full quarter of an hour. There is no need to say that the twain laughed and wept in turns over their victory. When M, Belmont returned from his cellar, with a choice bottle of old Burgundy, the reconciliation was complete, and that night the happiest hearts in Quebec were those of Roderick Hardinge and Pauline lielmont. M. Belmont was content at having done a good deed, but he was not re. lly happy. Why, the sequel will tell. i:i 11 ■> s I f. ■sU I h RODERICK HARDINGE, 83 s he has r'OU." i^oderick -d to say )ry. 1 choice ete, and ■oderick ntent at Why, XVIII. RODERICK HARDINGE. It was a little before nine o'clock when Hardinge entered his (juarters at the barracks. He had passed through an eventful day, and he felt weary. The interview which he had just held with M. Belmont was, however, so absolutely the object of his pre-occupation, that he appeared in nowise disposed to seek the rest required by his exhausted physical powers. Mechanically divesting himself of his civilian costume and as- suming the undress uniform of his rank, he moved absently about his little room, muttering to himself, humming fragments of song, and occasionally breaking out into low laughter. Arnold and his rebel crew were clean forgotten, the military- events through which he had passed, during thp preceding few days, were blotted from his mind, and the coming and going of the troops in the courtyard below completely escaped his attention. It has been said, and with easily assignable cause, that the soldier on the eve of battle is more sensitive *^o the softer passions of the heart and the oblivion of all else which these passions induce, than any other mortal. Such was the case with Roderick on this evening. He keenly appreciated the extent of the dangers which he had exi>erienced, and the im])ortance of the victory which he had won within the last hour. What to him would have bcien the glory of arms, the fame of patriotic service, if he had lost Pauline ? And — if the whole truth must be told — would the country itself have been worth saving without her ? Roderick Hardinge was seven and twenty j'cars of age. He was a .-Scotchman by birth, but the best part of his life had been I : M ■♦i ; t I m 84 THE RASTONNAIS. n I ■ m !l iini spent in Canada. His father was an officer in Frascr's famous Highland regiment, whose history is so intimately associated with the con(iuest of New France. After the battle of the Plains of Abraham, in which it took a leading part, his regiment was quartered in the city of Quebec for some time, and when it finally disbanded, most of its members, officers as well as men, settled in the country, having obtained from the Imperial Government large tracts of land in the Gulf region. This colony has made its mark in the history of Canada, and to the present day the Scotch families of Murray Bay rank among the most distinguished in the i)ublic annals of the Province. While retaining many of the best characteristics of their origin, they have thoroughly identified themselves with their new home, and by intermarriage with the French natives, have almost completely lost the use of the English language. Roderick's father imitated the example of many of his brother officers, and in the autumn of 1 760, a few weeks after the capitulation of Vaudreuil at Montreal, and the definitive establisnment of British power in Canada, he resigned his position in the army, and settled on a fine domain in Mont- magny, a short distance from Quebec, on the south shore of the St. Lawrence. Thither he summoned his family from Scotland. Roderick, his only son, was twelve years of age when he landed in Canada, and thus grew up as a child of the soil. He never left the country afterwards, and, on the death of his parents, he succeeded to the paternal estates which he greatly improved, and cultivated with considerable success. Much of his leisure time was spent in the city of Quebec where his position, wealth and accomplishments procured him admission into the most select circle: of the small but exclusive capita). From the circumstances of the vimes, the French language was almost more familiar to him than the English, and the reader will have readily understood that most of the conversations, which we have represented him as holding, were carried on in that RODERICK HARDINGE. 85 language. This was more particularly the case in his inter- course with Pauline and h'^r father, neither of whom spoke a word of English. When the first news of the invasion of Canada by the Continentals reached his ears, he immediately abandoned his estates to the care of his old friend Donald, and buckling on his father's sword, rode in haste to Quebec, and enrolled himself in the service. The remnants of Frascr's Highlanders, with other recruits, were formed into a regiment, called the Royal Emigrants, under Colonel Allan McLean, and we should naturally have expected that Roderick would have joined it, but for some reason or other, he did not do so. He took a regular commission in a regiment of Quebec militia, commanded by Colonel Caldwell. It was in this capacity that he performed the notable services which we have recorded in the preceding chapters. Roderick Hardinge was tall, robust, athletic and active. He was very fond of field sports. He had made many a tramp on snow-shoes with the coureurs des bois far into the heart of the wilderness. He had often wandered tor months with some of the young Hurons of Lorette in quest of the deer and the bison. He was a magnificent horseman, as his ride to Three Rivers has proven. His education had not been neglected, and his good native parts were well cultivated by the instruction cf his father and the best tuition which the learned French ecclesiastics of Que- bec could impart. He was very fair complexioned, with fiossy hair and flaxen beard. As man is usually ruled by contrast, this was probably the reason why he loved the dark-tressed, brown-eyed Pauline. He was ten years her senior, and had known her from her childhood, l)ut his florid air and perfect health made him look much younger, and, as the two walked together, there appeared no undue disparity of age. Roderick had just fastened the last button of his fatigue ( ■< r , 86 THE I5ASTONNAIS. jacket when there was a call at the door, and Donald entered the room. After a few words of hearty greeting, he informed his master that his reconnoitering of the rebels was over, and that they would speak for themselves the next day. He stated that he had just come from the Chateau, where he had con- veyed that intelligence to the Lieutenant-Governor. Hardinge thanked him for his diligence and fidelity, and as a recompense, in answer to an inquiry of Donald, ordered him not to return to the farm, but remain in the city to take part in its defence. While the country was in danger the Montmagny estate might take care of itself. i>i{ iiii 11 ! ! THE FRIGHTENED DOVES. 87 XIX. THE FRIGHTENED DOVES. Pauline had few or no misgivings. Her little being was all heart, and her mind could not grasp the significance of the political events which passed before her eyes, and on which her future more or less depended. For her, loyalfy to France consisted simply in reverence and obedience towards her father. For her, fealty to the King did not extend much beyond love for his handsome, manly representative, Roderick Hardinge. Happy woman that need not walk beyond the beautiful round of the affections. Noble woman whose heroism is purely of the heart, not of the head. There are many species of martyr- dom, but that of mere love is the grandest in the concentration of its own singleness. After Roderick's departure, Pauline felt the need of being alone for a brief period in order to go over quietly in her own conscience all the varied pathetic scenes of that evening. It was not a process of analysis. Her mind was incajxible of that. It was merely a quiet rehearsal of all the facts, that their vivid- ness might be made more vivid, and their effect brought home more tcridcrly to her heart. For a long hour she sat on the foot of her bed, now weeping, now smiling, now tossing her lovely head backwards, then burying her sweet face in her hands. At times a shadow would fiit over the delicate features, but it would soon be replaced by a glamor of serenity, until finally her whole demeanor settled into an air of prayerful con- tent. Her hands joined ui)on her knee, her brow was bent, and her lips murmured words of gratitude. Beautiful Paulme ! Sitting there with inclined body, and her whole being divided m tl Hi 88 THE liASTOJ^NAIS. between her love on the earth and her duty to heaven, she was the true type of the loveable woman. It was eleven o'clock at the small ivory clock over the mantel, when a scratch was heard at the door. What was Pauline's surprise, on answering the call, to see little Blanche step into the room. " Why, my little wood-flower, what could have brought you here to-night?" she exclaimed. The child sidled up to her godmother and did not answer at first, but there was that in her eye which at once led to sus- picion that everything was not right. Her very presence there at such an hour was the indication of an unusual event, for Pauline knew that Blanche had never passed a night out of Batoche's cabin. " Are you alone, my dear?" she asked. " Oh no, godmother, grandfather is with me." " Where ? " " Down stairs." " And is any one with him?" " Yes, M. Belmont is with him. He came to see M. Bel- mont." These words somewhat reassured Pauline. She knew that Batoche seldom, if ever, came to the city, but probably the circumstances of the time forced him to do so this night, and he had carried his granddaughter with him in case he should have to tarry too long. She, therefore, proceeded to unfasten the child's hood and cloak. " Come to the fire," she said, " and warm yourself, while I get you some cakes and sweets from the cupboard." As she said this, she noticed the same peculiar look in the eyes of the little girl. " Tell me, Blanche, what is the matter ?" she asked. " I don't know, godmother, except that I must spend the night with you." ? THE FRIGHTEN FD DOVES. SO " S[)cnd the night with me ? Well, that is right. I will take good care of you, my dear. Hut are you sure of what you say ? Who told you so ?" " U. Belmont himself." " My father sent you up to me ?" " Yes, and he said I must remain with you until he and grandfather called for me." " And they are both downstairs ?" The child's face put on that strange look again, as she an- swered : "■ They were there just now, but — " A great fear fell on the heart of poor Pauline. She knew instinctively that something was amiss. *' Come down with me, Blanche," she whispered, taking the child by the hand and leading her, on tip-toe, to the lower rooms. There was silence in the passage. The lights m the parlor were extinguished. The sitting apartment behind was deserted. Her father's cap and great coat were gone from their hooks in the hall. She went to the maid's room and found the girl fast asleep, in consequence of which there was no information to be obtained from that quarter. She went to the front door and looked out upon the street. She could easily distinguish the footprints of men in the snow on the steps, and the trace of a carriole's runners describing a sharp curve from the edge of the sidewalk. " They are gone," she murmured. And folding Blanche in her embrace, she returned to her chamber. " Don't crv, little godmother," said Blanche, throwing her arms around Pauline's neck. " Grandfather told me he would come forme before morning." Just then the muffled tread of soldiers was heard along the street, and low words of command reached the listening ears of Pauline. She understood that something momentous was go- G M\ i\ i:i! I iiil 90 THE RASTONNAIS. ing on. She closed her shutters tight, drew dowin llu' henvy curtains of her windows, mended the fire on the hearth, and crouching there, on low seats, like two frightened doves, she and Blanche awaited the coming of the dawn. M m j ill THE SPECTRAL ARMY. 91 XX. THE SPECTRAL ARMY. After leaving the banquet hall, the Lieutenant-Governor im. mediately set about acting upon the important intelligence which he had received from Donald. Now that the long sus- pense was over, and that the threatened invasion of the Bas- tonnais had become a reality, he felt himself imbued with the energy demanded by the occasion. Some of the ancient chroniclers, Sanguinet more particularly, have accused Mr. Cramahe of remissness in preparing for the defence of Quebec, but the researches we have made, in the composition of the present work, convince us that the charge is only partially true. He acted slowly in the earlier stages of the campaign because he shared the general disbelief in the seriousness of the Con- tinental attack. Montgomery's movement from the west he had no pressing reasons to dread, inasmuch as that officer was confronted in the Montreal district by the Governor-General and Commander-in-Chief, Guy Carleton himself. Carleton had nearly emptied Quebec of regular troops for his army, and as long as he employed them in keeping back Montgomery, Cramahe had really little or no responsibility to bear. Arnold's march from the east, through the forests of Maine, was known to be aimed directly at Quebec, but the Canadians of that day, who understood all the hardships and perils of winter in the primeval woods, had no idea that Arnold's column would ever reach its destination. And, as we shall see, in the next book, when describing the principal episodes of this heroic march, there was every good reason for the scepticism. But when at length, after many contradictory rumors and ', i; 'i' i M il IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) i.O I.I 1.25 K'.' 32 IIIM 122 1 m — ^ ^ IIIM ii 1.4 1.6 V] ^^ c*m. ' <.> %.^^'^ y * ^. :''-^ .<5S /: ^>% '/ r >!^ Hiotographic Sciences Cbrporalion 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. MSSO (716) 873-4503 (/. I 92 THE BASTONNAIS. much false information which would have bewildered any com- mander, Cramahe learned from the intercepted letters of Ar- nold, and from the volunteer reconnoitering of such faithful men as Donald, that the Continental army was really approach- ing Quebec, it is due to the memory of a worthy officer, even in these pages of romance, to say that he acted with judgment and activity in making all the preliminary preparations neces- sary to protect Quebec, until the arrival of Governor Carleton, and reinforcements of regular troops. After leaving the banquet hall, he put on his uniform, and Mrrapping himself closely in his military cloak, he resolved upon making a personal inspection of all the defensive posts of the city. He first repaired to the barracks in Cathedral-square, where he had a brief ^conference with the principal officers. He next visited every gate and the approaches to the citadel, where he was pleased to find that the sentries were unusually alert, and (luite alive to the exigencies of the situation, without precisely knowing what they tvere. The Lieutenant-Governor then walked down into the darkness of Lower Town and wan- dered a long time in silence along the dusky bank of the St. Lawrence. About three o'clock in the morning a sleigh drew up at the door of a large square house in a retired street. Two men is- sued frohi it, one middle-aged, erect and dressed in rather costly furs ; the other old, thin and arrayed like an Indian hunter, with a large fox-skin cap on his hei>d. As they step- ped across the footpath from the sleigh to the front steps of the mansion, a tall muffied figure stalked slowly on the other side of the street. " It is the Governor," whispered the younger man to his companion. '' I know his stature and carriage ! Let us enter." " I wonder what Belmont is doing out at this unseasonable hour/' muttered the tall man in the folds of his cloak. And THE SPECTRAL ARMY. 93 he walked on, while the door of the mansion closed with a thud upon the two sleighmen. I\' was five o'clock on the morning of the loth November, 1775 The first faint light of the morning was touching the tops of the far mountains. The air was frosty, with indications of snow. Two men stood at an angle of the ramparts, on the highest point of the citadel of Quebec. They were looking eastward. " See, Lieutenant," said one pointing his gloved hand across the river. " Ay, there they are, Your Excellency, issuing from the woods 3lM ascending the hill," replied the other. " They au -~ the hill, swarming up in hundreds," rejoined the Govemoi. Cramahd pressed the hand of Hardinge, and the two de- scended rapidly but silently into the city. On their way, Aiey heard the confused mutter of the streets : " The Bastonnais have come !" Yes, there they were. Arnold's men stood like a spectral army on the Heights of Levis. C ; END OF BOOK THE FIRST. e id I I BOOK II* THE THICKENING OF THE CLOUDS. I. ZULMA SARPY. It was a damp bleak morning, and the snow was falling fast, Zulma Sarpy sat in her bedroom, indolently stretched upon a rocking chair before a glowing fire. She was attired in a white morning dress, or pei^^noir, slightly unbuttoned at the collar, and revealing the glories of a snowy columnar neck, while the hem, negligently raised, displayed two beautiful slippered feet half buried in the plush of a scarlet cushion, Her abundant yellow hair, thrown back in banks of gold over the forehead and be- hind the rosy ears, was gathered in immense careless coils be- hind her head and kept in position by a towering comb of pearl. Her two arms were raised to the level of her head, and the two hands held on languidly to the ivory knobs at the top of the chair. On the second finger of the left hand was a diamond ring that flashed like a star. The whole position of the lovely lounger brought out her grand bust into full relief. Beside her stood a little round table supported on three carven feet of excjuisite workmanship, and covered by a beauti- ful netting of crimson ''2e. On the table was an open book and several trinkets of female toilet. The table gave the key • fl 1 1. I' s. ■ 96 THE nASTONNAIS. to the rest of the furniture of the apartment, which was mas- sive, highly wrought and of deep rich colors. The tapestries of the wall were uml)er and gold ; the hangings of the bed and windows were a modulated purple. The room had evidently been arranged with artistic design, and just such a one would be employed to exhibit a statue of white marble to the best effect. Zulma Sarpy was this living, breathing model, fair as a filament of summer gorse, and statuesque in all her poses. She had been educated in France, according to the custom of many of the wealthy families of the Colony. Although con- fined for five years — from the age of fourteen to that of nine- teen — in the rigid and aristocratic convent of Picpus, she had been enabled to see much of Paris life, during the waning epoch of Louis XVI's reign and the times of morbid fashionable excitement immediately preceding the great Revolution. Her natural disposition, and the curiosity incident to her previous Colonial training, led her to raingle with keen interest in all the forms of French existence, and her character was so deeply im- pressed by it that when she returned to her Canadian home, a few months before our introduction to her, she was looked upon very much in the light of an exotic. Yet was the heart of Zulma really unspoiled. Her instincts and principles were true. She by no means regarded herself as out of place in her native country, but, on the contrary, felt that she had a mission to fill in it, and, having had more than one opportunity of hon- orable alliance in France, preferred returning to Canada and spending her days among her own people. But she had to be taken as she was. If the good simple people around her did not understand her ways, she could afford to leave them in their wonderment without apology or explanation. The standing of her family was so high, and her own spirit so independent, that she felt that she could trace out her own course, without yielding to the narrow and antiquated ; her iple kid or hc.Y out ted ZULMA SARPY, 97 notions of those whose horizon for generations had never ex- tend .*d beyond the blue line of the St. Lawrence. Was she thinking of these very things this morning, as she lounged before the fire ? Perhaps so. But if she did, the thoughts had no palpable effect upon her. Rather, we fancy, were her thoughts straying upon the incident of three days be- fore, when she had that rattling ride with the handsome British Lieutenant and distanced him out of sight. That glance in her great blue eyes was a reflection of the one which she cast upon the youthful horseman through the little window squares of the farmer's house. That tap of the slippered foot, on the edge of the shining fender, was the gentle stimulant she administered to her pony's flank as he leaped forward to win the race. That smothered, saucy laugh which bubbled on her red, ripe lips was an echo of the peal which greeted Hardinge when he pronounc- ed the name of " Zulma," at the road gate. And as she rolled her fine head slowly to and fro on the velvet bosses of the back of her chair, was she not meditating some further design on the heart of the loyal soldier ? Conspiracies deeper than that, de- signs of love that have rocked kingdoms to their foundation have been formed by languid beauties, recumbent in the soft recesses of their easy chairs. Zulma had reached the culminating point of her revery and was gradually gliding down the quiet declivitis:" of reaction, when she was aroused by a great uproar in the lov^r part of the house. She did not at first pay much attention to it, but as the sound grew louder and she recognized the voice of her father, speaking in loud tones of alarm, she sat up in her chair and listened with concern. Presently some one rushed up the stair and precipitated himself into the apartment, without so much as rapping at the door. It was her brother, a youth of about her age, who was at school at the Seminary of Que- bec. He evidently had just arrived, being still wrai)ped up in a blue flannel coat, trimmed with red cloth, hood of the same ? ' 5 ;-l ■ ^t 5i THE BASTONNAIS. material, buckskin leggings and rough hide boots. He gave himself a vigorous shake, like a Newfoundland just emerged from the water, and stamped upon the floor to throw off the particles of snow adhering to his feet. " What means all this disturbance, Eugene ?" asked Zulma, holding out one hand, and turning her head over the side of the chair, till her face looked up to the ceiling. "Oh, nothing, except that the rebels have come!" was the rejoinder, as the youth walked up to his sister, and dropped globules of snow from his gloves into her eyes. " The what have come ? " "Why, the rebels." " You mean the Americans." ' ' " Americans or rebels, — what is the difference ?" " A world of difference. The Americans are not rebels. They are freemen, battling for their rights." " We have been taught at the Seminary to call them rebels." " Then you have b(jen taught wrong." Zulma had risen out of her chair, and stood up in front of the fire, with a glow of enthusiasm on her cheek. She would doubtless have continued to deliver her ideas on the subject, but her young brother evidently took no particular interest in it, and this circumstance, which did not escape her quick eye, suddenly brought her back to more practical questions. " Where have the Americans arrived ?" " At Point Levis." " When did they arrive ?" " This morning, early." " Have you seen them ?" " They are quite visible on the heights, moving to and tro, and making all kinds of signs toward the city. The whole of Quebec turned out to look at them, tiie scholars of the Semi- nary along with the rest. After I had seen the fellows, the Superior of the Seminary called me aside, and directed me to ZULMA SARPY. 99 take a sleigh, and come at once to notify you." "Notify me?" said Zulma, arching her brows. " M. Le Superieur is very amiable." " Well, not you exactly," said Eugene, laughing, " but the family." "Oh!" exclaimed she. "That is different. I never saw your Superior in my life, and I do not know that he is aware of my humble existence." " There you are mistaken. Our Superior knows all about you, your tricks, your oddities, your French notions ; and he often speaks to me of you. He is especially aware that you are a rebel, and is much grieved thereat." "Rebel ! There is that hateful word again." " I thought you liked it, when applied to yourself You told me as much the last time." Zulma laughed and seemed propitiated, but she said no more. Her brother then told her that their father was con- siderably agitated at the news. He was particularly alarmed lest his son should be exposed by remaining in the city, and thought of withdrawing him from the Seminary during the im- pending siege. What did Zulma think of it ?" " When do you return to Quebec ?" was the abrupt query. " I will return at once, and father is going with me." " I will go too. I want to see these Americans for myself, and then I will tell you what I think of your staying at the Seminary, or the reverse. Go down stairs, while I make ready." When Zulma was alone, it did not take her long to prepare herself for the journey. All her languor had departed. The idle fooling in which she had indulged during the previous hours was replaced by an earnest activity in moving ai)out her room. Her fingers were skilful and rapid in the arrangement of her dress. In less than a quarter of an hour, she walked up Xo the mirror for the last indispensable feminine glance. And i III lOU THE BASTONNAIS. I what a magnificent picture she was. In her sky-blue robe of velvet, with pelisse of immaculate ermiTie, and hood of the same material, quilted with azure silk, her beautiful face and queenly proportions were brought out with ravishing effect. Encasing her hands in gauntlets, she went down to meet her father and brother, and a moment later, the three rode away at a brisk pace in the direction of Quebec. FAST AND LOOSE. 101 II. FAST AND LOOSE. Pointe-aux-Trembles, or Aspen Point, in the vicinity of which stood the mansion and the estates of the Saq)y family, is a little more than twenty miles above Quebec, on the north shore of the St. Lawrence. The road which connects it with the city follows pretty regularly the sinuous line of the river. Over this route the sleigh bearing Sieur Sarpy, with his daughter Zulma and his son Eugene, had travelled rapidly and without interruption till it reached an elevated point, two or three miles outside of Quebec, overlooking Wolfe's Cove and commanding a full view of the Heights of Levis. Here Sieur Sarpy reined in his horse. " Do you see them ?" exclaimed Eugene, standing up in the sleigh, and pointing across the river. " 1 see nothing," responded his father. " The snow is blowing in our faces, and my old eyes are very feeble." Zulma remained buried in her buffalo robes and said nothing, but her eyes were fixed intently at the distant summits, and her face bore an expression of the most earnest interest. " They are moving up and down," resumed Eugene, " as if busy storing their provisions and ammunition. But they are very indistinct. I wonder if they see us better than we sec them ?" " They do," said his father. " The wind is behind them and they are not incommoded by the drift." After a pause, Eugene added : " They seem to have no general uniform. They must belong to different corps. Some have no uniform at all. Their ap- pearance is not much that of soldiers, and there are a good many small, young fellows among them." ' f i 102 THE HASTONNAIS. " It must be the effect of refraction," said Zulma, in a low voice and with a sneer. ** Hut to me they seem like giants, towering on the heights and stretching great arms toward us." " In menace? " (lueried the Sieur with a strange affectionate look at his daughter. " That depends," she whispered smiling, but immediately subjoined : " Let us drive on, papa." A few minutes afterwards they reached the city. For some reason or other Zulma declined accompanying her father and brother to the Seminary. The pretext which she gave was that she had a few i)urchases to make in the shops. But probably her real object was to visit some of her friends and ascertain the real condition of things. Whether she did so or not we need not stop to inquire, but an hour later she met Sieur Sarpy and Eugene at the place agreed upon between them, to learn the decision that they had come to. " My fate is in your hands," said the youth opening the con- versation in high good humor. " You promised to give me your advice after you had set your eyes on those gentlemen yonder, and now I have come to receive it." " Yes," said the father, ** we have determined to submit the matter to your arbitration. Shall Eugene remain at- the Seminary, or shall he return with us ?" " What does M. Le Superieur say?" asked Zulma. " He thoroughly appreciates the gravity of the situation. He believes there will be a siege, perhaps a bloody one, certainly a long one. He has strong opinions about the duty of every able-bodied man assisting in the defence of the city. The young children he will send back to their parents, but, at eighteen, Eugene ought to be accounted a man. He would remain at the Seminary, one of the safest asylums in the city, always under the eye of his tutors, and his studies would not be interrupted. But he might do some minor military service FAST AND LOOSE. 108 all the same, and in the event of a great cmergenry could help to swell the ranks of the troops. The Superior thinks that practically he would be more secure within the city than out of it. At home, he might be harassed by solicitations from the enemy, and draw down upon us a great deal of annoyance." At this Zulma smiled. " And," added her father, " you know that, at my age, and with my infirmities, I must have peace and quiet. From the beginning of these hostilities, 1 have vowed neutrality, and I would not like to see it disturbed." Zulma's manner changed at these words. She looked at her father with a mingled air of tenderness and determination, and said : " What does Eugene think about it ? Surely if he is old enough to fight, he ought to be old enough to know his own mind and to be consulted." The boy's answer was not very distinct. He did not seem to have any opinions. His ideas were decidedly hazy about the King's right to his allegiance, or the claims of the rebels to his sympathy. But there was good blood in the fellow, and his uppermost thought evidently was that it would be a grand thing for him to do a little fighting. Quebec was his native city ; everybody in it knew him, and he knew everybody. Perhaps it would be as well if he joined in its defence. " Then stay here," exclaimed Zulma peremptorily. She added that she would take proper care of her father, and that Eugene need have no solicitude on that score. In the meantime, things had not come to the worse ; perhaps, it would take even weeks before the siege commenced, and they would have ample time to communicate with each other again. After this conference, Eugene accompanied his father and sister to the street where their sleigh awaited them. The three were engaged in a few parting words, when a young British officer passed hurriedly along. He would certainly have gone i i 1^1 Hi ii i' i ;'?' I II t i. 104 THE BASTOMNAIS. on without noticing them, had not one of Zulma's gauntlets fallen on the side-path at his feet. Was it accidental or was it a challenge ? Who shall tell ? But whatever it was, the officer stooped immediately for the glove, and handed it to the owner with a profound salutation. Roderick Hardinge then recog- nized the beautiful amazon. There was time for the interchange of only a few words between them. " Lieutenant," said Zulma, with that bright laugh which had so enchanted Roderick the first time he heard it, " I have the honor of presenting to you a loyal soldier in the person of my brother, who has just decided upon entering the service in defence of the city." " I am proud to hear that. Eugene and I are old friends, and I am glad to know that we shall now be brothers in arms." " But, Lieutenant," coatinued Zulma, " you will perhaps be surprised to learn that he has acted thus at my recommendation." " Indeed ! That is certainly an agreeable surprise. I may then be justified in hoping that you too, mademoiselle, will take part in our cause." " That is quite a different matter. Before I take, I must be taken, you know," with another merry laugh. " You mean that before we take you ." " You must catch me." " I own that is hard to do, considering my first experience, but it will be done all the same." " Never !" exclaimed Zulma, with a flush on her cheek. " I repeat it — and mark me — it shall be done." And after a little more pleasantry, the party separated. On their way homeward, Sieur Sarpy lightly questioned his daughter. He knew the strength of her character, the high metal of her temper. Her words with Hardinge, all playful as they appeared on the surface, had, he was certain, a deeper significance. But this wonderful girl was dearly affectionate, FAST AND LOOSE. 105 in the midst of all her follies, and she would not grieve her father by telling him the secret of the thoughts which had moved her bosom since the morning. He had pleaded for quietude during the unquiet days that were coming. She was resolved he should have it in so far as it depended upon her. At least it was much too early in the day to vex his mind with forebodings. She therefore comforted and calmed him by words of assurance, and, when he crossed his threshold, that evening, the lonely old man felt that he was indeed secure under the protection of his daughter. irr- ? . Mi ^m n I 106 THE BASTONNAIS. III. THE SHEET-IRON MEN. The next morning the snowfall had ceased, and although the sky remained lowering, there was no sign of a storm. In- deed, it was still too early in the season for frequent or abundant snow. The climate of Canada has this peculiarity which meteorologists have failed to explain — that whereas, in other parts of the continent, such as the north-west, and even so far down the Mississippi Valley as St. Louis, the winter temperature has moderated with the clearing of the forests and the cultivation of the soil, in Canada it remains precisely the same as it was two and three hundred years since. A comparison of the daily registers kept at present with those diurnally con- signed in the Relations of the Jesuits, shows — as the historian Ferland tells us — that, day for day and month for month, the indications of the thermometer in 1876, for instance, tally with those of 1776. At the present time, in Canada, although the cold really begins to be felt in the beginning of November, the winter is not regarded as having finally set in till the 25th of the month. That is known as St. Catharine's day, and its peculiar celebration will be described further on, being con- nected with one of the episodes of our story. The last month of the autumn of 1775 may therefore be supposed to have followed the general rule. Indeed, we know froni the records that it was, if any thing, milder than usual, and that the winter was uncommonly tardy, a vessel having sailed from Quebec for Europe as late as the 31st December. As we have said, the weather, on the particular morning on which we write, was cold but calm. The snow lay crisp and '■ THE SHEET-IRON MEN. 107 hard upon the level places ; in the hollows and gorges it was piled in light fleecy banks. The atmosphere was of that quality that, although it had a sting when first it was faced, so soon as the ears, hands, cheeks, and other exposed parts got used to it, the whole system felt a pleasureable glow of buoy- ancy. It was capital weather to work in, and so a number of sturdy farmer's wives, residing on the north bank, a little above Quebec, gathered at the river to do their washing. They had on immense quilted mob-caps, with large outstanding ears, petticoats of thick blue or purple woollen, the work of their own hands, heavy stockings to match, and pattens lined with flannel. A great double handkerchief, of flowery design, was set upon their broad shoulders, covering their necks and crossed over their voluminous bosoms; but there was free play left to the arms, which flushed with rosy color under the influence of work and weather. A broad board fastened to the bank, jutted out five or six feet into the water, and was supported there at a proper level by a solid trestle. A boat was attached to this primitive jetty, and there was besides a small building of rude timber, which served for the women to boil their clothes in, or hang them up to dry. Four women were working together along one plank, and of course there was continuous talk among them. But whenever the conversation became more than usually animated, or they would fall to disagreeing among themselves, they would call out to their companions who were similarly working and talk- ing some yards away to the right and left. One lively old girl, who was striking her pallet so hard on a bombed bundle of yellowish clothes, that meshes of brown hair broke from under her cap and fluttered on her forehead, seemed to be the oracle of the party. " Perhaps this will be the last time we shall wash clothes here. Those are terrible fellows who have come. They call them Bastonnais. They come from very far, and are very I, ad t!;M w 8 ■ I i I' •n 108 THE BASTONNAIS. men. They will bum our houses and bams. They will empty our cellars and granaries. I saw M. le Curd yesterday, and he told me that we will have to shut ourselves up, and not show our faces, because you know." '• Pshaw, Josephine," said another, " it will not be so bad as that. My old man says that they are like other men. I'm not afraid. I will talk to them. I am sure there are some pretty fellows among them." " Marguerite is always a coquette," continued a third. "But she will have no chance. These strangers are poor, lean, broken-down, and badly dressed. They are not soldiers at all, like the men at the citadel. No lace, no gold tape, no epau- lettes, no feathers in their hats. The officers have no swords, and many of the soldiers are without muskets. Men like that I would not allow to approach me, and if they come to our house, I will dance them out with this paddle." Saying which, the speaker fell to, beating her clothes with renewed vigor. The youngest and prettiest of the four women having listened to all this, straightened herself up from her tub, and placing her arms akimbo, said : " Pierriche " — meaning her husband — " was in the city all yesterday afternoon. You know Pierriche is a great talker, and likes to know all the news. Every time he goes to the city he has enough to talk about for a week afterwards. Well, do you know what he says ? He is such a hoaxer, such a blagueur, that I did not believe him, and hardly believe him now, but he swore to me that it was true." "What was it?" asked her three companions simultaneously. " Well, he said that after he had been in the city a little while, and sold w^ s in his sleigh, he thought he would take a stroll into Lowei . v^wn. There he met a lot of his friends, and one of his cousins from Levis. And they told him . . . . " " What did they tell him ?" asked the three women, who THE SHEET-IRON MEN. 109 who had now abandoned their work and gathered around the speaker. "Well, you know all the boats were taken away from the other de cf the river, but these men were so frightened that they ran down the bank till they came opposite the Isle of Orleans. Then making a kind of raft with a few logs they got over to the Island. There they found boats which took them to the city. And they ^immediately spread the news of what they had seen." . " What had they seen ?" queried the excited women. " You are provoking, Matilde, with your long story." " You will not believe me." " I'll believe everything," said one. " I'll believe nothing," said another. " Never mind what we will believe. Only tell us what it is," said the third. " Well, they told Pierriche that these Bastonnais are terrible men, tall and strong. They suffer neither cold nor heat. Nothing can hurt them, neither powder, nor ball." " And why not ?" " Because " Here the pretty housewife paused suddenly, and with a look of mingled fear and surprise, pointed to the river. Her com- panions turned and saw a light birch-bark canoe, shooting out from the opposite shore and directed for mid-stream. Three men were in it. " There !" said the first speaker. " Just what Pierriche said. Look at them. Look especially at that tall man sitting in the stern. The boat is approaching very quick. See, he raises his cap and salutes us." " What a handsome fellow," said Marguerite. " Yes, but look at his dress and that of his companions," exclaimed the others. " Just what Perriche said," repeated the first. !f m^; 110 THK HASTONNAIS. "They are devils, not men," cried out a second." " Just what Pierriche said. They are clad i'.i sheet-iron." " Yes, that is true. Sheet-iron men !" And the frightened women, leaving the clothes on the jetty, fled precipitately up the bank. The boat described a wide semi-circle in the river, and the young man sitting at the stern swept the north shore with a field glass. It was Gary Singleton, an officer of Morgan's riflemen, one of the chief corps of Arnold's army. He had been sent to reconnoitre. Morgan's riflemen were all tali, stalwart men from Virginia and Maryland, and they were dressed in tunics of grey un- bleached linen. The French would say 7'etus de toile. But the panic of their sudden arrival, at Levis, changed toile into tole^ and the whole country side rang with the cry of " sheet-iron men." The amusing incident is historic. lURCH AXn MAIM-K. IV. BIRCH AND MAPLE. Arnold's men stood like a spectral army on the Heights of Levis, but unlike spectres they did not vanish in the full glare of the light. After gazing their fill upon the renowned city which they had come so far to see — its beetling citadel, its winding walls, its massive gates, the peaked roofs of its houses, the tall steeples of its churches, the graceful campaniles of its numerous convents — they set actively to the work of attack which remained as the culmination of their heroic march through the wilderness. The enchantment of distance had now vanished, and the reality of vision was before them. Ar- nold had the quick insight of the born commander. He un- derstood that he could accomplish nothing from Levis. The broad St. Lawrence rushed by him with a sullen moan of warn- ing, isolating him efifectually from Quebec. He had no ar- tillery. There were no boats. An ice-bridge was out of the question for at least two months to come. And yet he saw his way clear. He must cross to the north shore. He must at- tack Quebec. The prize was worth even a desperate attempt. If he took Quebec before Montgomery joined him, his name would be immortalized. He would rank with Wolfe ; indeed, considering the exiguity of his means, his feat would surpass that of Wolfe. The capture of Montreal would be glory enough for Montgomery. That of Quebec belonged of right to Benedict Arnold. If there were risks, there were also chances. The regulars were away. The walls were manned only by raw militia. Lieutenant-Governor Cramah^ was no soldier. The French inhabitants of the city were at least II it 112 THE BASTONNAIS. apathetic. Many of the English residents were positively the friends of the Continental cause. Yes, Arnold must cross the river, and that speedily. On the very afternoon of his arrival, he ordered Morgan, the com- mander of the rifle corps, to prepare a number of canoes with- out delay. With the assistance of some Indians who were hanging around the camp in quest of fire-water and other booty, a squad of Morgan's men, under the command of Gary Singleton, repaired to the neighboring woods skirting the river, and there proceeded to strip the oldest and girthiest birch trees. Autumn is not so favorable a time as spring for the stripping and preparing of birch bark, but the result is satisfactory enough provided the frost has not penetrated too deep into the heart of the tree. ' The maple and the birch are the kings of the Canadian forest. Two strong, tall, unbending trees, they stand as fit pillars to the entrance of a boreal climate. For fuel they rank first on the market of hard woods, and each has its special ad- vantage. The maple is rather more appreciated for its heating properties ; the birch is decidedly more valuable for its ash. The ash of the birch is a fair thing to see, white as snow and soft under the touch as flour. The leaf of the maple and bark of the birch are national emblems in Canada, and it is well that they should be, for they are both associated with the his- tory of the countr)-, and enter largely into its domestic com- forts. The annals of New France may be compared to an al- bum of maple leaves bound in a scroll of birchen bark, and a contemporary writer in Quebec has adopted the idea for the title of one of his works. The solid beams of the Canadian house are hewn out of columns of birch, as sound if not so fragrant as the cedar of Lebanon, and the furniture of the Canadian home is wrought of bird-eye maple, susceptible of the velvetest polish, and more beautiful, because more variagat- ed, than walnut or mahogany. niRCH AND MAPLE. 113 Every season of the year has its peculiar amusements, and among a people of primitive habits, these amusements arc m iie through with a kind of religious observance. There U the hay-time in summer when, under the sultry sky, and omid the strong scents of the hardier field-flowers, the huge wain is driven from the stubble field into the shadows of the impend- ing woods, and around it the workers sing and make merry in token of joy for the abundant yield of swt^ct grass that shall fatten the kine in the drear barren month., of snow. The young men rest on their scythes, that glisten like Turkish sabres, and, from under their broad-brimmed hats of straw, the town girls smile, as they tress garlands of garish flowers to bind the last and the largest of the sheaves. In autumn, there is the season of the harvest with its tra- ditional ceremonies of a religious or convivial nature. The granary is decorated up to the roof in hangings of odorous verdure, and the barn floor is cleared for the dance of the weary feet that have long toiled in the five-acre. Under the crescent moon, in those mild September evenings, the old super- stitions of the Saxon Druids are repeated, while many a beauti- ful Norma, crowned with vervain and mistletoe, a gleaming sickle in her hand, and her eyes filled with the prophetic light of love, reigns a .queen over the honest loving hearts of swains who lay at her feet the brightest wisps of ti. :" upland. And the humble Ruth is there, too, with her sweet patient face, and her timid look fixed on the generous Boaz who allowed her to pick the gleanings of his golden corn. Winter also has its feasts and its holidays. No where better than in arctic chmates are these celebrated by persons of every age and sex. There are innumerable games and pastimes around the fire, where the wildest merriment drives away the tedium of the long wintry night. Stories are told, songs are sung, tricks are played. There is dancing in the lighted hall ; there is love making in the dark comers ; and to crown the ■■■h \ t ifi ■W-' ir I 114 THE HASTONNAIS. festival there is a sleigh-ride under the cold moon, when the music of the bells, the tramping of the hoofs, the shouts of the drivers, and the shrill whistle of the Northern blast, are to the buoyant spirits of the young promenaders like draughts of ex- hilarating wine. In Canada, all these pleasant rural ceremonies of the old countries are well preserved. And it is the only portion of this continent where they are to be met with. The American who has read of them, but has never witnessed them in Europe, can find them faithfully reproduced in Canada. But in spring, Canadians have a pastime peculiar to them- selves, furnished by their own climate. It is the season of sugar-making. At the period in which the events of our story occurred, the cultivation of the maple was much more extensive than now, but even at present it is sufficiently well maintained to enable a traveller to study all its picturesqueness and charm. In Vermont, New Hampshire, Michigan and Wisconsin, the maple is cultivated, but in such a matter-of-faci, mercantile fashion, that there is no rural poetry in the process. The maples stand in an area of half an acre. Each one is notched at the height of about a foot or a foot and a half from the ground. A piece of shingle is fastened in the lips of the wound, at an angle of forty-five, and down this trickle the sweet waters in a trough set at the foot of each tree. There stand the forest wives distilling their milk, while the white sunlight rests on their silver trunks and the soft winds of March dally with their leafless branches. The sugarman has his eye fixed on each of them, and as fast as the urns are filled, he empties them into a large vessel preparatory to boiling. In an open space, towards the centre of the area, is a huge cauldron dangling from a hob, and under it crackles a fire of pine and tamarac. At a little distance from this stands the cabin of the proprietor, where are stowed away all the utensils necessary for sugar- RIRCH AND MAPI.E. lift making. There too his hammock swings, for during the whole period when the maple bleeds, he lives like an Indian in the forest. Presently the sound of voices is heard coming up the slopes, and in a short time the whole party that has been invited to the sugar-festival finds itself collected under the maples. They bring with them baskets of provisions, hams and shoulders, eggs, and the indispensable allowance of strong waters. " The first thing to be done, my friends," cries the host to his guests, " is to drink the health of the forest wives in a draught of maple water." And immediately tin cups are applied to the notches. When they are filled, the toast is drunk with all the honors. ** Now," resumes the host, " come up to the cauldron and get your share of the syrup." One by one, the guests approach the huge vessel where the maple water is boiling and bubbling. Each one holds in his hand a wooden basin filled with fresh clean snow, and into that the hospitable host ladles out the golden stream. With the accompaniment of new bread, this dish is delicious, for it is peculiar to the maple sugar and syrup that they do not satiate, much less nauseate, as other saccharine compositions do. After this pteliminary repast, the guests indulge in various amusements. The older folks sit together at the cabin door, chatting of their youthful frolics in former sugar-making days, while the young people sing, flirt, promenade and enjoy them- selves as only the young know how. Some of the more active go about gathering dry branches and wood to keep up the fire, and others saunter a little out of sight on a visit to the demi- johns which they have hidden behind the rocks. After a time, the host gives the signal for taffy-making. This part of the fun is reserved for the girls. They throw aside their mantles, pnish back their hoods, tuck up their sleeves and plunge their white fingers into the rapidly cooling masses of I 116 THE BASTONNAIS. syrup. The mechanical process of drawing the arms backwards and forwards is in itself an uninteresting occupation, but somehow under these Canadian maples, in that bracing mountain atmosphere, and amid all the accessories of this peculiar vernal pic-nic, taffy- making is an exhilarating, pictur esque amusement. The girls get ruddy with the exertion* they pant, they strain, they duck their heads when their lovers creep behind to steal a kiss, or they run after the shameless robber and slap his naughty cheeks with their sticky palms. Under the rapid kneading the dark syrup becomes glossier, then it reddens, next it grows a golden hue, till finally it gets whiter and whiter, thinner and thinner, and the taffy is finished. Towards the middle of the afternoon, the principal repast takes place. All the provisions which the guests have brought are produced and spread on a long table prepared for the purpose. Maple water and maple sugar are the accompaniments of every dish. When all the meats have been discussed, the feast winds up by the celebrated maple omelet. Whatever Soyer or Brillat Savarin might say, it is a pleasant dish, though too rich to be partaken of copiously, and according to every hygienic principle, very apt to be difficult of digestion. It consists of eggs pretty well boiled and broken into maple syrup, slightly diluted and piping hot. After a meal of this kind, exercise is indispensable, and it is the custom to get up a series of dances until the hour of breaking up. " Friends," exclaims the host, when they are about to retire from the table, " I am glad to find that you have done justice to my syrup and sugar. It is the best sign that they were good. It keeps up the reputation of my sugary. Try to retain the taste of them till next year, when I hope we shall all meet again under these same trees." A round of applause follows these words, and the whole company breaks out into hunting songs in honor of the host. " Now," resumes he, " we must by all means have a dance. BIRCH AND MAPLE. 117 I never let my friends go without at least one, and I intend to join in the first myself. Come, hurry up, one and all. I see a suspicious cloud or two in the sky yonder, and we may possibly have a storm before the day is over." A fiddler is soon found and the dance is organized. He leans his left cheek lovingly on his instrument, and has just run his bow across the discordant strings, when suddenly a loud crash is heard in the gorges of the mountain. It is the roar of the storm. The maple tops writhe and twist in the sweep of the winds that come up in eddies from the river far beneath. The sky is suddenly darkened. The snow falls thick and fast. These portents are sufficiently significant to startle the whole party. The dance is broken up and every one prepares to depart as fast as he can. Gary Singleton and his men had a sterner duty to perform by the maple trees. They cut them down and of the trunks constructed a number of rafts wherewith to transport the bag- gage and provisions of the army across the St. Lawrence. At the same time, the Indians of the party were detailed to build birch-bark canoes. With their long knives they swept around the slender trunks, making an incision as regular and precise as any surgeon might have done on a human limb destined to amputation. The first circle was made about one foot from the ground, the other about three feet from the branches where the tree began to taper. This was to secure slips of about equal length. They then ran down their knives longitudinally from the edge of one circle to the edge of the other circle, making four or five sections according to the size of the tree. This was to obtain slips of about equal breadth. They next inserted the point of their knives under the layer of bark, and with rapid action of the arm pulled off slip after slip. As these slips fell upon the ground they rolled up in scrolls, but other Indians as quickly unrolled them, stitched them to- gether with light thongs of moose or buckskin, and sharpened 118 THE BASTONNAIS. them at the two extremities. In this way, three men could build a good sized canoe, within two hours. There remained only the process of drying which was not indispensable indeed, but contributed to the lightness and safety of the craft. So soon as the first canoe was made, Gary Singleton launched it, and, accompanied by two men, made the reconnoissance which so much frightened the gossipping laundresses. He did not approach the north shore as near as he had intended, for fear that the women might give the alarm and betray his design, but he saw enough through his glass to enable him to report that the secluded basin, sheltered by dense trees, and known as Wolfe's Cove, would be a favorable place for the landing of the invading army. Accord- ingly, after three days devoted to the repose of his troops, and the replenishing of his stores from the neighboring farm houses, Arnold, on the night of the 13th November, undertook to cross the St. Lawrence. He was favored by darkness and a storm, and from ten in the evening till four in the morning, by the aid of thirty birch-bark canoes and a few rafts, he was engaged in the hazardous work. Backwards and forwards the fragile vessels plied silently over the broad bosom of the river, bearing a freight of taciturn armed men, on the point of whose muskets literally trembled the fate of Canada. As the morning dawned the whole of the Continental army, with the exception of 160 men who were left at Levis, was safe in the recess of Wolfe's Cove, and Arnold had won another stake in the lottery of war. ON THE RAMPARTS. 119 V. ON THE RAMPARTS. Very early that same morning, Zulma Sarpy drove into Quebec, accompanied by a single servant. As she neared the city, she caught a glimpse of the rebel troops surging up the gorge of Wolfe's Cove and forming in groups on the fringe of the skirting wood. They could not as yet be seen from the city, although the authorities had, an hour or two previously, been apprised of their landing. The sight wonderfully ex- hilarated the girl. She was not astonished, much less intimi- dated by the warlike view. Rather did she feel a thrill of enthusiasm, and a wild fancy shot through her mind that she too would like to join in the martial display. She stopped her horse for a moment to make sure that her eyes were not betraying her, and when she was satisfied that the men in the distance were really Continentals, she snapped her whip and drove rapidly into Quebec, in order to enjoy the malicious pleasure of beitig the first to communicate the fact to her friends. In that anticipation she was not disappointed. Her story at first was not credited, because a glance at the Heights of Levis, across the river, revealed the presence of troops therej But when she insisted and detailed all the circumstances, the news spread with rapidity. From one street it passed into another; from Upper Town it tlew into Lower Town, and ac- cording as the news was confirmed by other persons coming into the city, the people grew wild with excitement and crowded to the ramparts to satisfy themselves. Pauline Belmont had not been as intimate as she might 1 'jii*^ H m 120 THE BASTONNAIS, have been with Zulma Sarpy, both because they had been separated for many years during the school period, and because their characters did not exactly match. The timid, retiring, essentially domestic disposition of the one could not move on the same planes with the dashing, fearless, showy mood of the other. Intellectually they were not equals either. Pauline's mind was almost purely receptive and her range of inquiry limited indeed. Zulma's mind was buoyant with spontaneity, and there was a quality of aggressive origination in it which scattered all conventionalities as splinters before it. Pauline was likely to lean upon Zulma, listen with admiration to her brilliant talk, ask her advice and then smile, fearing to act upon it. Zulma, on the other hand, was not inclined to claim or exercise patronage. She was actually too independent for that, and in regard to Pauline, more particularly, she rather preferred bending as much as she could to her level. In the few months after Zulma's return from France, however, the girls had frequently met, and they would have liked to see more of each other, had they not both been retained a great deal at home by the seclusion of M. Belmont and the infirmities of Sieur Sarpy respectively. On the present occasion Pauline was one of the friends upon whom Zulma called, and naturally her first business was to acquaint her with the landing of the Continentals. She was surprised to find that the intelligence caused a deathly pallor to spread over the features of her companion. " The siege will begin in earnest, and we shall be cut off from all the world," murmured Pauline. " And my father has not yet returned." ' - ' ' . " Is he outside of the city ?" asked Zulma. " Yes. He went away yesterday, promising to return early this morning. His delay did not alarm me, but now from what you tell me, I fear he may get into trouble." ON THE RAMPARTS. 121 I " Do not fret, my dear. It will take several days before the city is invested, and your father's return will not be interfered with. Besides, he is not a militant, I believe." Pauline drew a sigh, but said nothing. Zulma resumed : " I am sure he is neutral like my father, and such will not be annoyed." " I wish I could be sure of that, but ," and Pauline suddenly checked herself as if fearful of giving expression to to her suspicions. " You must remember, my dear, that these Americans are not so black as they are painted. They are men like others, and true soldiers are always merciful," added Zulma. " Indeed ! Do you think so ? I hardly know what to say about them. Father says very little of late, but there is a friend of ours who speaks of them in terms of hostility." " He must be an ultra loyalist." " He is a British officer." " A British officer ? Why, Pauline, I thought your father kept aloof from British officials." " Oh, but this one is really a Canadian and speaks French like ourselves," said Pauline, blushing. "That makes all the difference," replied Zulma, with a pleasant laugh that was slightly tinged with sarcasm. "I declare I should like to know this specimen." " You know him, dear." " Impossible !" " He has spoken to me of you." "Indeed!" " And is a great admirer of yours." " You mock me ! " " You can't guess who it is ?" And little Pauline brightened up with childish glee at having gained this slight advantage over her companion. f '■ I m 122 THE BASTONNAIS. " You puzzle and excite me, darling. I can't guess. Tell me who it is." " Lieutenant Hardinge ! " "Lieutenant Hardinge?" Why was the cheek of Zulma suddenly touched with flame ? Why did her blue eyes darken as in a lurid shadow ? And her lips — why did they contract into marble whiteness, without the power of articulation? There was a pause of deep solemnity. To Pauline it was perplexing. She feared that she had said too much, both for her own sake and that of her friend. But she was soon relieved of her misgivings by the touch of Zulma's hand laid upon hers, and a deep, penetrating look, which showed, better than any words, that the latter under- stood all, and generously sympathized with her friend. " Of course," she said with a laugh, " if you borrow your ideas from Lieutenant Hardinge, you cannot have much of an opinion of the Americans, and I suppose it would be loss of time for me to controvert that opinion." " Fortunately the result of the war does not depend on the notions of two girls like ourselves," retorted Pauline, with an argumentative spirit which was quite foreign to her, and which made her companion laugh again. " Never mind," said Zulma. " Let us do something more womanly. Let us go and look at these new soldiers." " Very well, and I may hear something of my father on the way." They stepped out of the house and joined a crowd of men, women and children bending their steps to the ramparts. When they reached the walls, they found them already lined with people talking and gesticulating in the most excited manner. Some spoke aloud, some shouted at the top of their lungs, some waved their hats, sor.^ fluttered their handkerchiefs attached to the end of their walking sticks, like flags, and some openly beckoned a welcome to the rebel host. There stood ON THE RAMPARTS. 123 Tell ame? And ithout deep lat she of her by the :trating ■ under- )w your h of an loss of I on the with an which ig more on the 1 of men, When led with I manner. |ir lungs, cerchiefs Ind some tre stood Arnold's army spread out before them, deployed into a loose double column on the Plains of Abraham. They had brushed their clothes, furbished their arms, and put on the best possible appearance. They were not more than seven hundred in number, but by a judicious evolution of the wings were made to appear more numerous. Some of the officers looked very smart, having donned the fuU-d^ess uniforms which had not been used since the expedition left Cambridge two months previously. Pauline and Zulma occupied a favorable position in the midst of a large group where they could see everything and hear all the commentaries of the crowd. " Why don't the Bastonnais come^on?" said an eld French- man, dashing his blue woollen bonnet to one side of his forehead. " They are imbeciles. They don't understand their chance." " You are right," answered another old man near him. " If the rebel General only knew it, the gates are not properly manned, and the stockades only half made up. He could rush in and carry the city by a coup de main" This conversation was striking, and later in life Zulma used to say that it expressed what was true. If Arnold had made a dash upon Quebec that November morning, it is asserted by Sanguinet and others, that he would have carried it. Thus would he have been immortalized, and the world would have been spared the most dastardly traitor of modern times. The foregoing dialogue took place to the right of Zulma and Pauline. The follov/ing was held on their left, between two Englishmen — a tavern-keeper and a sailor. " If our commander made an attack on these ragamuffins he would sweep them into the St. Lawrence," said the sailor. " Or capture the most of them," said the tavern-keeper. Here was a contrary opinion to the foregoing, and yet it too has been expressed by subsequent historians. The Quebec 124 THE BASTONNAIS. garrison was fifteen hundred strong, and well supplied with arms and ammunition. The American army was only half that number, ill accoutred and poorly armed. The British had a base of operations and a place of retreat in Quebec. The Continentals had no line of escape but the broad St. Lawrence and a few birch-bark canoes which a dozen torches could have destroyed. Who knows ? A great oppor- tunity of fame was perhaps lost that day. " I wish they would sally forth against the Americans," said Zulma to Pauline. " But the shadow of Montcalm is upon them. Had the Marquis remained behind his intrenchments, we should never have been conquered by the English. If the English would now only follow his bad example." And she laughed heartily. THE FLAG OF TRUCE. 126 with half ritish ebec. )road lozen ippor- " said upon nents, If the id she M VI. THE FLAG OF TRUCE. Suddenly a singular movement was observed among the American troops, and silence fell upon the eager multitudes who lined the ramparts. The principal rebel officers were seen grouped together in consultation. From their gestures it was evident that a matter of grave importance was argued, and that there was far from being a harmonious counsel. In the centre of the party stood a short, stout man, of florid com- plexion and apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was advocating his views with vigor, sometimes with a persuasive smile, sometimes with angry words. This was Arnold. A few of the officers listened in silence ; others walked away with a scowl of derision and contempt on their faces. Finally, the interview closed, the troops fell back a little along the whole line, and all seemed intent upon watching the important event which was about to follow. A trumpeter stepped forward, followed by a tall young officer dressed in the uniform of a rifleman. Both gave the salute to Arnold and received their instructions from him in a low voice. The young officer took from his commander a sealed despatch, and, drawing his sword, attached to it a white handkerchief. The sight of this handkerchief explained the whole move- ment. " A summons to surrender !" was the word that passed along the Continental ranks, and nearly everybody laughed. The officers could scarcely conceal their disgust, and some of them loudly protested against being compelled to witness the humilia- tion which they were certain was about to ensue. SJ »' ■. 126 THE BASTONNAIS. " A flag of truce !" exclaimed the crowds on the ramparts of the city, and their curiosity was excited as to the purport of the contemplated parley. It is safe to say that no one suspected a demand for capitulation, as nothing could appear more ridicu- lous under the circumstances. The officer with the trumpeter advanced rapidly over the vacant ground which lay between their line of battle and the walls of Quebec. At stated intervals, according to the rules of the service, the trumpet was sounded, but no response came from the city. Finally the two envoys stopped and stood in full view of the two camps. " What a handsome fellow it is," said Zulma to Pauline. The girls were in an excellent position for observing all that took place, and were so interested that even the timid Pauline forgot her anxieties about her father. " Do you mean the trumpeter ?" " Oh, he is well enough. But I mean the officer who bears the flag." The two friends were discussing this point when their atten- tion was arrested by a movement at the gate almost beneath them. A British officer walked out alone and went direct to the flag-bearer. " It cannot be," exclaimed Pauline. " Yes, it is no other," replied Zulma with a laugh. " Roderick !" *' Yes, and no better choice could have been made. A handsome loyalist against a handsome rebel. But there is a disparity of age." " Hardly." " I beg your pardon. Our tall, beautiful rebel is hardly twenty-one, I am sure, while your Lieutenant, Pauline, is more mature." It was indeed Roderick Hardinge who had been commission- ed to go forward and meet the American messenger. As he BLOOD THICKER THAN WATER. 143 X. BLOOD THICKER THAN WATER. Batoche and his companions plunged into the forest. On the way, the object of the expedition was fully explained to the old man. He was expected to have an interview that night with some officer of the Continental army for the purpose of organizing a system of action between them and the mal- contents of the environs of Quebec. These malcontents were of various degrees of earnestness, courage and activity. Some had boasted a great deal of what they would do when the Americans came, but when the Americans did come, and the loyalist troops showed a determined front of opposition, they quietly slunk into the background or even betrayed their former professions. Others of these malcontents confined themselves to secret action, such as furnishing information of what was going x)n within the city, harboring those who were tracked for treason, or affording supplies of food and ammu- nition to such of their friends as needed them for use. Finally, there were a determined few, chiefly old soldiers or the sons of old soldiers of Montcalm and Ldvis, who, having never become reconciled to their English masters, in the sixteen years which had elapsed since the Conquest, hailed the appearance of the Americans as the prelude of deliverance, and openly raised the standard of revolt. Of these there were again two classes. One formed into a duly equipped battalion which joined the army of Arnold and took part in all the subsequent events of the siege. The second class consisted of farmers around Quebec, who, not being able to quit their families and perform regular railitarv service, engaged in a species of I ;, 13 ! il i :! If I'- THE BASTONNAIS. u *u off*.rtive and romantic. Among these were ranged Barbm and his comp j^„„^ skill 'b toche was called .0 -U- J-^- ^l „„„as for miles «ith the carbine, h>s rare knowledge ^j„„„ee,h.s reck- r„circurnference,h,sremark<^blepowejs ._j^^ „, „„,t ess bravery and fert.Uty of ^"P^f ^^ i„g events which critical danger, all fitted >"-/<" f.i.'^ftfends. But the a.cumstances thrust upon ^^J^^.^^,,,, Ms character oddities of his IH i ADVICE AND WARNING. 161 XII. ADVICE AND WARNING. The rallying cry of the band of malcontent farmers was the yelp of a wolf. This was adopted out of hatred of the very name of Wolfe, the conqueror of Quebec. " Loup " was the title applied by them to every English resident, and more es- specially to the British soldier. We have seen how the sound was used to gather the conspirators in the forest at night, and how Batoche recognized it. Although the Americans had been only forty-eight hours in the environs of Quebec, they had already learned the meaning of the signal. This was apparent when the hermit with his three companions reached the bridge which spanned the little river St. Charles, on the high road leading directly to the town. There a squad of New Jersey militiamen were posted as sentry. As the Canadians approached they were challenged, and on uttering the cry of the wolf, were immediately admitted within the lines. The officer in com- mand understood French, and Batoche was the spokesman of his party. The following colloquy took place: " What is your desire ?" " We have come to offer you our services." " In what capacity ?" " As scouts." " Do you live in the town ?" " No, at Beauport." " You are farmers ?" u Yes." " Have you arms ?" " Yes, for we are also hunters." ■} !l HI ^1 Vi I I: ! -: ,11 152 THE BASTONNAIS. I. i ii' i i! til i ; 1 ill " You know the country then ?" " For ten leagues around." " And the town ?" " We know all our countrymen in it." " Can you communicate with them ?" " We have many means of doing so.*' " That is well. We shall need your services." We have said that the object of Barbin and his companions was to enter into direct communication with some of the Con- tinental officers, make known their plans of operation and devise some mode of systematising their services. This they partially accomplished in the course of a further conversation, and were told to return in a few days to receive direct commis- sions from headquarters. But they had a second duty to perform, or rather Batoche had, as he informed his companions on their way to the rendezvous, after hearing full particulars of everything that had taken place in the two days since the Americans had invested Quebec. Batoche delivered his ideas somewhat as follows. Addressing the officer, he said : " You are aware that my countrymen within the town are divided in sentiment ?" " So we have heard." " One party espouses the cause of England and has formed a regiment to fight for it." " That we know." " That party is now particularly incensed against you." "Ah!" " Another party favors the cause of liberty and liberation."' " Yes, they are our friends." " Well, they are very much discouraged at what has recently happened." "Indeed? How so?" " May I speak freely ?" " As soldier to soldier." • - . ADVICE AND WARNING. 153 " And will you believe my words ?" The officer fixed his eyes on the quaint energetic face of the old hermit and answered emphatically : " i will." . " And you will report my words to your commander ?" " Yes." " Then, listen to me. The day before yesterday, after land- ing on the north shore, you deployed your forces on the Plains of Abraham ?" Batoche went into this and the following other particulars, which he had learned from Barbin, in order to have them con- firmed by the American officers, so that there be no mistake about the conclusion which he drew from them. " We did," was the reply. " And you sent forward a flag of truce ?" "Yes." " That was for a parley." " It was a summons to surrender." " That makes matters worse. In the town it was supposed to be for a mere parley. When the truth is known, the effect will be still more disagreeable." " What do you mean i*" exclaimed the officer. " Excuse me a moment. Your messenger was dismissed ? " " He was," replied the officer with impatience. " And the flag fired upon ?" " Yes," was the answer accompanied by an oath. " Then, this is what I mean. Your friends within the town are indignant and disheartened because you did not resent this double insult. They cannot explain it to themselves. They reason thus: either the Bastonnais were strong enough to avenge and punish this outrage, or they were not. If they were strong enough, why did they not sweep to the assault ? If they were not strong enough, why expose themselves and us to this terrible humiliation ? In the first instance, their inaction I Ml 11 154 THE BASTONNAIS. was cowardice. In the second supposition, their drawing up in line and sending a flag to demand surrender was a paintul fanfaronade." Batoche had warmed up to his old weird manner, as he spoke these words. He did not gesticulate, neither did he elevate his voice, but the light of the camjvfire flickering upon his face revealed an expression of earnestness and conscious strength. Advancing a step or two towards the officer he said in a lower voice : " Have 1 spoken too much ?" " You have spoken the truth !" roared the officer, stamping his foot violently, and then muttered in English : "Just what I said at the time. This old Frenchman has told the truth in all its naked harshness." The officer was Major Meigs, one of those who had most strenuously disapproved of the despatch of the flag of truce, ar.d whose opinion of the event is recorded in history. He thanked Batoche for his valuable information and assured him that he would repeat all he had said to Colonel Arnold. " Perhaps you would allow an old soldier to add another word," continued the hermit, as they were about to separate. The officer was so impressed with what he had heard, and with the peculiar manner of the strange being who addressed him, that he granted an eager permission. " As a loVer of liberty, as an enemy of the English, as a friend of the Bastonnais, I think, after what has happened, it would be better for your troops to withdraw for a time from within sight of the walls of Quebec." The officer looked up dubiously. " They might retire to some village a little up the river. There they could re victual at leisure." No answer. And wait for re-inforcements." « al(u iiw.iiwi>im»«T"w«iwBii ADVICE AND WARNING. 155 The officer smiled approvingly. " And give their friends in and around the town time to organize and complete their arrangements. As yet we have done little or nothing. But in a week or ten days we could do a great deal." " The idea is an excellent one, and will be considered," said the officer, shaking the hand of Batoche, after which the inter- view terminated. Whether the old man's advice had any weight or not, the very course which he suggested was adopted a couple of days later. Feeling his inab-'ity to press the siege unaided, and learning that Colonel McLean, with his Royal Emigrants, had succeeded in reaching Quebec from Sorel, on the very day that he himself had crossed from Point Levis, thus strengthening the garrison of the town with a few regulars, Arnold, on the 1 8th November, broke up his camp and retired to Pointe-aux- Trembles, to await the arrival of Montgomery from Montreal. »: m M I, 166 THE BASTONNAIS. ! i ^1 I; ! XIII. A woman's tactics. When Zulma Sarpy reached borne on the evening of her eventful journey to Quebec, her aged father observed that she was under the influence of strong emotions. She would have preferred keeping to herself all that she had seen or heafd, but he questioned her closely and she could not well evade replies. It was quite natural, as she fully understood, that he should be anxious to obtain information about the state of affairs, es- pecially as he had heard several rumors from his servants and neighbors during the day. When, therefore, she had composed herself somewhat, after the abundant and deliberate meal of a healthy, sensible woman, she narrated to him in detail all the events which she had witnessed. Sieur Sarpy frequently in- terrupted her with passionate exclamations which . surprised her considerably, as they showed that he took a deeper interest in the impending war than he had intended or she had expected. The incident of the bridge particalarly moved him. " And you are certain," he asked, " that the young officer was the same who was fired at from the -walls ?" " I am positive I cannot be mistaken," she replied. " His stature, his noble carriage, his handsome face would distinguish him among a thousand." " But you do not know his name ?" " Alas ! no." " You should have inquired. The man who treated my daughter with such high courtesy should not be a stranger to me." Wjp W W^HWiiwi .W iiiii^W 1 1. 1 UDU ^ ff B A woman's tactics. 167 " Ah ! never mind, papa, I shall find out his name yet," said Zulma with a laugh. " Perhaps not. Who can tell what will happen ? War is a whirlwind. It may blow him out of sight and remembrance before we know it." " Never fear," interrupted Zulma with a magnificent wave of her white arm. " I have a presentiment that we shall meet again. I have my eye on him and " (t He has his eye on you," added Sieur Sarpy, breaking out into a little merriment which was unusual with him. His daughter did not answer, but an ineffable light passed like an illumination over her beautiful face, and words which she would have uttered, but did not, died away in a delicious smile at the corners of her rich, sanguine lips. She rose from her chair, and stood immoveable for a moment, gazing at a vase of red and white flowers that stood on the mantel before her eyes. Her snowy night dress fell negligently about her person, but its loose folds could not conceal the outline of her bosom which rose and fell under the touch of some strong mastering feeling. Sieur Sarpy, as he looked up at her, couid not dis- simulate his admiration of the lovely creature who was the comfort and glory of his life, nor restrain his tears at the thought, vague and improbable though it was, that perhaps this war might, in some unaccountable way, carry with it the destiny of his daughter, and change for ever the current of their mutual existence. As she stood there before him, know- ing her as he did, or perhaps because he did not know her so well as he might have done, he felt that she was about to make an important communication to him, ask him something or pledge him to some course which would affect him and her, and bring on precisely that mysterious result of which the shadow was already in his mind. But before he had the time to say a word either to quiet his fear or dissipate his conjecture, Zulma moved slowly from her place and dropped softly before i\ ill tr t is SI 168 THE BASTONNAIS. his knees. All the color of her face, as she upturned it to his, was gone, but there was a melting pathos in those blue eyes which fascinated the old man. " Papa," she said, " will you allow me to ask you a favor ? " Sieur Sarpy felt a twinge in his heart, and his lips contracted. Zulma noticed his emotion and immediately added : — " I know that you are feeble, papa, and must not bear ex- citement, but what I have to ask you is simple and easy of ac- complishment. Besides, 1 will leave you to judge and abide unreservedly by your decision." Sieur Sarpy took his daughter's hand in his and replied : " Speak, my dear, you know that I can refuse you nothing." " You have resolved to be neutral in this war." " That was my intention." " Did you come to this resolution solelv for your own sake ?" " For your sake and mine, dear. I am old and infirm, and cannot take part in the struggles of strong men. You are young and I must guard your future." Zulma remained silent for a few moments, as if she could find no further words to say. Her father, observing her em- barrassment, brought back the conversation to its original drift, by inquiring into the nature of the demand which she had in- tended to make. " I had intended to ask you my liberty of action," "he sr with suddenly recovered energy. " But I will not d> nu^. Circumstances will perhaps occur to modify the situi. on for both of us before hostilities have progressed very far. All f shall ask of you now is that you will allow me to see that young officer again." The old man, on hearing this innocent request, breathed more freely, as he exclaimed : " Why, is that all, my darling ? You certainly may see him A WOMAN S TACTICS. 159 again. I would like to see him myself and make his acquaint- ance. As I told you before, I have great admiration for his bravery and gallantry towards you. And, Zulma, the next time you see him, don't fail to learn his name." " That is precisely what I want to obtain," said the girl with a smile. " Then we are quite agreed," rejoined her father, tapping her on the cheek and rising to close the interview. He was now in great good humor, and she also affected to be gay, but there was a flush on her cheek which told of an in- terior flame that glowed, and when her father had departed, she walked up and down the floor of her bedchamber with the Slow measured step of deep, anxious reflection. ^ u i'l H . • • .' ; .1 A iMi; 160 THE BASTONNAIS. XIV. ■ A] 1 ; ' I THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. I^i ■■ ! Four days later, the village of Point-aux-Trembles was startled by the approach of Arnold's men. Their appearance was so sudden and unexpected that the people did not know how to explain it, and the most of them barricaded their houses. But the American advance was very orderly. The vanguard wheeled to the left from the village and took up its quarters on the extreme edge of the St. Lawrence. The main body stack- ed arms in front of the church, and billets were at once secured in all the houses of the village. Arnold himstlf took up his residence with the curd who treated him well, and frequently during their short stay invited the principal officers to his table. This clergyman was opposed to the American invasion, in obedience to the mandate of the Bishop of Quebec, but for the sake of his people he judged it advisable to use the Con- tinentals with as much respect as possible. And hi& courtesy was properly rewarded, as during their whole sojourn at Pointe- aux-Trembles, the Americans treated the inhabitants with un usual consideration. The rear guard passed through the vil- lage and echelonned along the road for a distance of fifteen or twenty miles. This division was mainly composed of cavalry and riflemen whose duty it was to scour the country in search of provisions, and to keep up communication with the upper country whence the reinforcements from Montgomery's army were daily expected. All Arnold's officers approved of his temporary retreat, for the precise reasons which had been laid down by old Batoche appeared to every one of them urgent under the circumstances. THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 161 But if there was any one of them more pleased than another it was Gary Singleton. He had other than military reasons for applauding this measure. The opportunity was afforded him — at least so he fancied — of recovering the treasure which he had lost under the dark covered bridge, of seeing once more the vision which, since that eventful night, had always floated be- fore his memory. Glorious illusion of youth ! At that favored period of existence so little appreciated while it lasts, and which, when it is gone, is the object of bitter lamentation for the rest of life, even hardship gives zest to enjoyment when the heart is buoyed — as what youthful heart is not ? — by the sweet potency of woman's love. Fatigue, hunger, thirst, disease, and poverty are only trifles that are laughed at, so long as there is seen in the background of it all the lambent light of tender eyes speaking, as nothing else can, the language of the devoted heart. For many of his brother officers, men with families, or already advanced in years, this American invasion was a dreary reality, made up of a dismal succession of marches and counter- marches, parades and bivouackings, attacks and repulses, pri- vations of every description, with the prospective of defeat at the last. But to Gary Singleton the war had been, up to the present, a constant scene of pleasurable excitement, as he will have occasion to testify himself in a subsequent chapter, whMe from this point to its close it rose with him to the proportions of a romance. His single clue was that the beautiful girl whom he sought lived in the neighborhood of his present encampment. Whether it was above or below, on the line of the river, or somewhere in the interior, he could not of course tell, but he was determined to find out. He knew that the present quar- ters of the army were only temporary, that within eight or ten days, at the furthest, they would be on the forward march again, when the hurry of battle would ensue and his fate might be a bloody grave under the walls of the old capital. Hence 162 THE BASTONNAIS. the necessity for diligence. He thought he should be willing to die if his eyes were blessed only once more with the sight of the object of his worship. These thoughts were passing through his brain, as he slowly rode along the road one quiet afternoon while the sun lay white on the frozen ground, tinging the leafless branches of the beeches and birches with a silver light. He little knew what was in store for him as he mechanically pulled in the reins, and looked up an avenue of maple leading to a mansion on his right. V t) it I :jj SI I jiL. ^ ON THE HIGH ROAD. 163 XV. ON THE HIGH ROAD. » The house atracted Gary's attention by the beauty of its site and its appearance of wealth and comfort. He at once concluded that it belonged to some old French seigneur who, after the conquest of the Province by the British, had retired to the seclusion of his estates, and there spent the evening of of his life in the philosophic calm of solitude. He had no further curiosity about it, however, and would probably have passed on, had he not casually caught sight of a couple of figures coming down the stairs to the open space in front. The distance was considerable, and the intervening trees broke the line of vision somewhat, but he thought he could distinguish the forms of a young woman and an elderly man. He tarried a moment longer to look on. Presently he saw a horse led to the foot of the stairs, and the young lady assisted to her seat in the saddle. The site stirred him considerably. A suspicion — but it was only a suspicion — crossed his mind. What if it were she ? He dismissed the thought, however, as altogether too good to be true. It was impossible that she should thus throw herself into his arms. Half the romance of all this adventure would be lost if it had so simple and easy a conclusion. No ! He had to seek for her, he had to toil, to wait, to suffer still more before he could expect to attain the object of his desire. Thus do we add to our pain in the in- tensity of our love's longings, and Gary took grim pleasure in magnifying his own wretchedness. But somehow he kept his eye sharply fastened on the distant rider. After conferring with the elderly man for some moments, she drew herself up, I n ' 1 ; Nil I'll ]\ ■ i 4i 164 THE BASTONNAIS. settled herself in her saddle, and moved away from the front of the house. The avenue of maples, at the foot of which stood the young officer, lay directly in her path, and for a mo- ment Gary thought she would take it. She halted her horse at the head of it and looked down toward the gate. She sat full in his sight. He s*at full in hers. She must have seen him, as he certainly saw her. Did they recognize each other ? O Love, that is so sharp-eyed ever, how perversely blind it is sometimes. Gary should have pulled up his horse's reins, cleared the fence and ridden like mad up the avenue. The lady should have waved her kerchief in token of a tryst and cantered down the path to meet her cavalier. Instead . of which he sat dazed in his saddle, and she quietly walked her pony away from the opening of the avenue, and slowly passed along a narrow road through her father's grounds. There is often a revelation in disappearance, as there is a light in darkness. Scarcely had he lost sight of the lady rider than Gary felt an irresistible impulse to meet her and discover who she was. Now that she was gone, thfe suspicion arose again that perhaps she was the loved one whom he sought* Had he frightened her? That was not probable from the ease and deliberation of her manner. Would he catch another glimpse of her ? He felt that that depended entirely on him- self, ^d he determined that if he did see her again, the sight would be a decisive one. He paused a moment longer before making up his mind what to do. He thought of opening the gate, sauntering up the avenue and t j.ning down the path which she had taken. But the trespass on private property, and the fear of being stopped at the mansion to make explana- tions, deterred him from taking the step. He judged it wiser to spur up the main road and trust to luck. Perhaps he might find an outlet for that bridal path whence she would issue. In this surmise he was not mistaken. After riding about half a mile he came to the mouth of a rugged, unfre- ON THE HIGH ROAD. 165 ft ' r 1' quented country road, the bed of which was moist from the ooze of rills on one of its banks. Here he stopped and recon- noitred with the keen eye of the soldier. To his surprise and delight he observed the fresh prints of pon/s hoofs leading outward. He was satisfied that she had gone along this route, and pursued her journey further up the highway. The course was therefore clear for him. All he had to do was to follow, and he did so without delay. Meantime the afternoon had worn on, and the sun was slowly sinking to the rim of the sky. There was the promise of a full hour of day-light yet, but the air was getting chilly and banks of pinkish clouds spreading fan-like in the western heavens gave portent of wind and storm. For a whole hour did Gary Singleton ride along that solitary road, watching the line of forest on his right and the steep embankment of the river on his left. But he heard nothing save the low lapsing sound of the water, and the monotonous simmer of the trees. He saw nothing that could divert his attention from the one object of his search. A fear came over him that his pursuit would be in vain. He. was already far away from quarters and, without special cause, could not well prolong his absence much further. He therefore with a heavy heart resolved to turn his horse's head in the direction of the camp. As he advanced on a few steps slowly, deliberating sadly on this, he came to a sharp bend in the road, and a few hundred yards before him, ob- served the blue smoke of a little farm-house that stood in the clearing of the wood. Before the house there was a group of men, women and children standing around a saddled horse. To say that Gary was surprised would be using a very mild term indeed. He was so astounded that he did not venture to proceed another step. His presence excited a tumult among the people. The children ran into the house, the women retreated to the door, but a lady in riding-habit paci- fied them with a laughing gesture, and immediately mounted 1 J n Hi t ■ i ir-. 166 THE BASTONNAIS. her horse. Addressing them a few words of farewell, she turned into the road and, a moment later, stood at the side of the young officer. " Is it possible, mademoiselle ?" was all that Gary could whisper, his agitation being so great that he had to hold on to his pommel for support. It would be falsehood to say that the lady was not similarly agitated, but she had that magnificent secret of disguise which places women far above men in many of the most critical passes of life. Her answer was a delicious smile of recognition, and the offer of her gauntleted right hand. " I never expected to meet you on this lonely road," said Gary, after recovering a little, in saying which he uttered a most palpable but unconscious falsehood. Else why had he ridden so far ? Why had he suffered the torments of doubt and expectation the live-long afternoon ? The lady was more direct and simple. The frankness of her reply almost startled Gary from his saddle. " I expected to meet you, sir," she said, and broke out in one of her merriest laugiis. Explanations followed fast. The lady avowed that she had recognized Gary from the head of the avenue, had purposely avoided going down to meet him at the gate, had taken the bridle-path through her father's grounds mstead, with the cer- tainty that he would follow her. She only half intimated the reasons why she acted thus, but her partial reticence was the most charming portion of her revelations, and as he listened Gary was in a very ecstacy of delight. She knew that he would follow her ! What adorable feminine ingenuousness in the confession ! What consciousness of superiority and power ! The conversation, started from this point, did not flag. The young officer recovered full possession of his senses and the two rode briskly homeward in the roseate twilight which to them seemed the harbinger of a happy dawn flushed with the the glories of an Eastern sunrise. mMIMMHI AN EPIC MARCH. 167 XVI. AN EPIC MARCH. the The next day Gary Singleton sat with Zulma and her father in a room of the Sarpy mansion. A great fire glowed in front of them, and at their side was a little table bearing cakes and wine. Gary sat at one angle of the chimney, Sieur Sarpy at the other, and Zulma occupied a low chair in the apex of the semi circle. After many topics of conversation had been exhausted, and the young officer had been made to feel quite at home, Sieur Sarpy demanded an account of Gary's march with Arnold through the forests of Maine. " I have heard something about the hardships of that expe- dition," said he, " and 1 know enough about the nature of our woods and prairies to understand that yours must have been a particularly trying fate." " We have a great deal of wood country in Maryland,'^ replied Gary, " but nothing like this in your Northern climates. I am strong and healthy, but there were many times when I almost despaired of reaching Quebec in safety." " Where did your army organize ?" " In Gambridge, at the headquarters of General W^ash- ington." " When ?" " " In the middle of August." " What was your definite object ?" " Well, when war against Great Britain became inevitable, we had to prepare ourselves for the worse. The battles of Lexington, Goncord and Breed's Hill threw us on the defensive. But we could not be satisfied with that. We must act on the h 1 ! If I I ii ' 3 i I n ' 11 168 THE BASTONNAIS. ;i : v'l m IS, 1 h f offensive. Congress then resolved to attack the English in Canada." " The English?" exclaimed Sieur Sarpy. " Yes, the English," said Zulma, turning towards her father with animation of look and gesture. " The English, not the French." " Precisely, mademoiselle," resumed Gary, with a smile and a profound bow. " The French in Canada are our brothers and have as much reason as we to detest the British yoke." " Alas !" murmured Sieur Sarpy, raising his eyes to the ceiling and striking the arm of his chair with his palm. A •look from Zulma caused Gary to pass rapidly over this part of his narrative. He continued to say in general terms that Congress, having determined to invade Canada by way of the Northern lakes, judged it expedient to send a second expe- dition by way of the South, along the Kennebec river. " It was a beautiful morning in September," he said, " when we marched out of Cambridge, under the eye of General Washington. Our first stopping place was at Newburyport. There we took to the water. Eleven transports conveyed us to the mouth of the Kennebec. Two hundred boats were awaiting us there, constructed by carpenters who had been sent ahead of us for that purpose. This place was the verge of civilization. Beyond it, for hundreds of miles in the interior, was the primeval forest. An advance party having been thrown forward for the purpose of reconnoitering and exploration, the main body proceeded in four divisions, of which our corps of riflemen held the van. After a pleasant march of six days, we came to Norridgewock Falls." " Norridgewock ?" said Sieur Sarpy, as if speaking to himself. " I think I remember that name." " No doubt, you do, sir. It is a consecrated name. It recalls a great and good man, Father Ralle." " Ah, I remember. It was about forty years ago, and I was AN EPIC MARCH. 169 very young, but I recollect with what horror the Superior of the Missions at Quebec heard of the massacre of the saintly apostle of the Abnakis." " Who murdered him ?" enquired Zulma. " The English settlers in Massachusetts," replied her father with emphasis. " A party of them fell on the settlement and killed and scalped the missionary and thirty of his Indians." The eyes of Zulma flashed fire, but she said nothing. " Yes," said Gary, " the foundation of the church and altar of the Norridgewocks are still visible, but the Indians have disappeared and desolation reigns over the scene of blood. At these Falls we had our first portage." " I know," said Sieur Sarpy, smiling. " For a mile and a half we had to drag our boats over the rocks, through the eddies, and at times even along the woods. The boats were leaky, the provisions spoiled. We had to call oxen to our aid. Seven days were spent in this fatiguing work. When we arrived at the junction of Dead River with the Ken- nebec, one hundred and fifty men were off the rolls through sickness and desertion." " Was the weather cold ?" " Not in the first part of our journey. The sky was balmy, the sun shone nearly every day, the water-courses were filled with salmon-trout, the trees were magnificent in their autumn foliage, and the tranquil atmosphere of the landscape was soothing to our wearied limbs. But in the middle of October, the scene suddenly changed. All the leaves of the forest had fallen, the wind blew chill through the openings, and sud- denly there appeared before us a mountain of snow. Our commander pitched his tent and unfurled the Continental flag. One of our officers ran up to its summit, in the hope of seeing the spires of Quebec." Sieur Sarpy smiled again and shook his head. M '1 U 1 'tl 11 ! I 1 M 170 I HE BASTONNAIS. i i i " That officer should have given his name to the mountain," said Zulma, laughing. " So he did. We named it Mount Bigelow." " And what did he see from the top ot it?" " Nothing but a wintry waste, and desolate woods. From this point, our sufferings and dangers increased until they became almost unbearable. Wading fords, trudging through the snow, hauling boats — it seemed that we should never cross the distance which separated us from the headwaters of the Chaudiere. A council of war was held, the sick and disabled were ordered back to the rear, and, to add to our discouragement, Colonel Enos, the second in command, gave up the expedition and returned to Cambridge with his whole division." " Traitor !" exclaimed Zulma, with characteristic enthusiasm. " But the rest of us pressed on, spurred by the energy of despair. Seventeen falls were passed, and on a terrible October day, amid a blinding snowstorm, we reached the height of land which separates New England from Canada. A portage of four miles brought us to a small stream upon which we launched our boats and floated into Lake Megantic, the principal source of the Chaudiere. We encamped here, and the next day, our commander with a party of fifty-five men on shore, and thirteen men with himself, proceeded down the Chaudiere to the first French settlements, there to obtain provisions and send them back to us. They experienced unprecedented hardship. As soon as they entered the river, the current ran with great rapidity, boiling and foaming over a rocky bottom. They had no guide. Taking their baggage and stores to the boats, they allowed themselves to drift with the stream. After a time the roar of cascades and cataracts sounded upon their ears, and before they could help themselves, they were drifting among rapids. Three of the boats were dashed to pieces, and their contents lost. Six men were thrown into the water, but were AN EPIC MARCH. 171 itain, From il they hrough never iwaters ck and to our d, gave s whole lusiasm. nergy of October t of land of four launched ,1 source day, our thirteen the first Ind them ip. As th great hey had lats, they time the ars, and among ,nd their ut were fortunately rescued. For seventy miles falls and rapids succeeded each other, until at length, by a providential escape, the party reached Sertigan, the first French outpost." " Saved ! " exclaimed Zulma. " And how were they treated there ? " asked Sieur Sarpy with much curiosity. " As friends. I am thankful to say ihat our wearied men received shelter and provisions from the French inhabitants who freely accepted our Continental scrip which they regarded as good money. But for their aid we should all have perished." " The rest of the army did not follow at once ?" " It could not. We had to wait for provisions from our commander, else we should all have perished. We eat roots raw which we had to dig out of the sand on the river bank. Wc killed all our dogs for food. Wc washed our moose-skin moccasins, scraped away the dirt and sand, boiled them in the kettle and drank the mucilage which they produced. When the first flour and cattle reached us from Sertigan, the most of us had been forty-eight hours without eating. Refreshed in this way, encouraged by the friendship of the French inhabi- tants, and reinforced by a band of forty Norridgewocks, under their chiefs Natanis and Sabatis, to serve as guides for the re- mainder of the journey, we took up our march again and reached Levis two months after our departure from Cam- bridge." " It was an epic march !" cried Zulma rising from her scat and pouring out wine into the glasses on the table. Sieur Sarpy pledged his guest in a bumper of Burgundy. And the compliment was deserved. That march of the Continental army was one of the most remarkable and heroic on record. ill ! I 172 THE RASTONNAIS. XVII. O OIOVENTU PRIMAVERA DRLLA VITA. l.'i i In the fortnight that followed, Zulma and Gary met nearly every day, sometimes more than once a day. It was impossible that it should be otherwise. There is no power on this earth that can restrain two youthful hearts thrilling and surging with the first impulses of love. When the imagination is all aglow with the puq^le pictures of destiny ; when the soul throbs with the unspeakably delicious sentiments of an affection that is requited ; when the nerves are in tension and quiver like the strings of a harp ; when the hot blood runs wild through the veins, suffusing lip and cheek and brow ; and the eyes look out upon the roseate world through a mist of tears that are pleasureable pain and painful pleasure inexplicably blended, then there is no force of cold conventionality to check the outcomes of the spirit, no bolts or bars or chains to fetter the bounding limbs that go forth rejoicing through the enchanted landscape which the good God has opened to all of us, at least once in life, as an exquisite foretaste of Paradise. What mattered it to Zulma and Gary that the autumn skies were low, that the winds moaned dismally through the leafless woods, that the snow clouded the face of the sun and charged the atmosphere with inclement moistute ? They sat together before the blazing fire-place, and conversed for hours, quite forgetful of the dreary winter that was setting in. Or they stood together at the window, and as they conversed, uncon- sciously contrasted the light and warmth that reigned in their hearts with the cold and gloom of the waning year outside. Or they lingered on the portico, loath to part for the day, and O GIOVENTU PRIMAVERA DELLA VITA. 173 never minded the bleakness of the weather, in the hope of meeting again. What mattered it that Singleton had military duties to perform which retained him in camp for many hours of each day, or sent him at the head of scouting i)arties, over the country in search of provisions or to watch the movements of the enemy ? He managed his time so well that while never, in a single instance, neglecting his business as a soldier, he found the means of satisfying the claims of the lover. These very difficulties only gave /est to the excitement in which he lived, and he was happy to know, although she never said it, that they added to Zulma's sense of appreciation. Another circumstance deserving of mention is that the young rifleman's visits to the Sarpy mansion were so con- ducted as to be a secret to his companions-in-arms. There was a purpose in this, although neither Gary, nor Zulma, nor M. Sarpy ever exchanged a word about it together. The stay of the Continental army at Pointe-aux-Trembles was only temporary. Its stay around Quebec, after it returned there, would be at least rather precarious. It was, therefore, hardly desirable that one of its officers should be known to have contracted other than military engagements which might bind his good name among the vicissitudes of a most hazardous war. Thus there was a dash of calculation in the romance of Gary's love, a reserve of good sense amid all the impetuousness which buoyed his heart. It is ever thus with men. They are rarely whole lovers. Their ingrained selfishness always pierces, however slightly, to mar the completeness of their sacrifice. It was not so with the Canadian girl. She had that glorious independence — the gift of superior women — which cares not for the prying eyes of all the world. She did not mind who knew of the American soldier's visit to her father's home. She would not have concealed a single one of his interviews' with herself. She liked him ; she was delighted to think that he i 1 m V ;v|ji ; I ii'i 1: out by the sight of the patrols along the ronds, th ■ almost none of them called at the mansion during the whole period of occupation. O GIOVENTU PRIMAVERA DELLA VITA. 175 And so passed the fortnight away. It was all too short considered by the number of days. The mornings rose and the twilights came with a calm remorseless rapidity that had no regard for the calculations of the heart, but when the recapitu- lation was made, it was found that a mighty distance had been travelled, and that the vague impressions of each succeeding interview had verged at last into a blazing focus, whence the illumination of two youthful lives burst upon the view. 176 THE BASTONNAIS. XVIII. BRAIDING ST. CATHERINES TRESSES. !' One incident of this eventful period must not be passed over in silence. The reader himself will judge of its import- ance. It was the 25th November, St. Catherine's D.^y. In Italy and the South of Europe, the Virgin-Martyr is venerated as the patron of philosophical students, and the collegiate bodies celebrate her festival with public disputations on logical and metaphysical subjects. But in Belgium and France, the day is kepi as one of social rejoicing by the young, and in Canada, from the earliest times, probably because it marks the closing day of the navigation of the St. Lawrence and the beginning of the long dreary winter, it is observed with song, dance, games, and other tokens of revelry. One special feature is the making of taffy which the young g-rls engage in during the evening, and with which they regale their friends and lovers. The day itself had been melancholy enough. Snow had fallen continually until it had piled a foot high on the level roads. The wind howled dismally around the gables, and the branches of a maple beat doleful music against the window of Zulraa's room. She felt the influence of the inhospitable weather. A feeling of weariness weighed upon her from the early hours of the morning. Nothing that .^he attempted to do could distract her mind or dispel her loneliness. The book which she had taken up over and over again lay with its face down upon the table. The harpsichord was open, but the music on its rack was tossed and tumbled. Zulma was a good musician and passionately fond of her instrument, but could BRAIDING ST. CATHERINE'S TRESSES. 177 not abide it when her spirits were depressed. She used to declare that, even in her best moods, the simplest melody had for her a tinge of sadness, which, when she herself was sorrow- ful, became a positive pain. She scarcely left her room during the whole day. The house was silent and could afford her no relief. There was nobody stirring in the courtyard or around the kitchen. Even the great watch dog had retired to sleep in his kennel. The snow fell noiselessly, curtaining out all the world ; the line of the sky was low and leaden, and nothing was heard to break the death-like stillness of the air, save occasional gusts of wind sullenly booming in the hollows. If Zulma could have slept ! More than once she threw herself wearily upon her couch, but the eyelids which she would have closed remained rigidly open, and she surprised herself gazing with intense stare upon the arabes(|ues of the window shades or the flowered patterns of her bed curtains, while all sorts of wild, incongruous fancies trooped through her brain, causing her brow to ache. She would then spring with impatience to her feet, stretch out her white arms, clasp her hands behind her neck, roll up the coils of golden hair that had fallen on hor shoulders, and then walk up to the window, where she gazed vacantly out upon the bleak prospect. " If he would only come," she murmured, as she stood there. " But it is impossible. There is no riding on horse- back through such snow, or I should have gone out myself." At length the weary afternoon had worn away. Five o'clock rr.ng through the house from the old French clock at the head of the stair. Zulma had just finished counting the strokes With a ftteling of relief when the tinkling of sleigh bells fell upon her ear. She rushed to the window, shot a glance upon the court, uttered an exclamation of joy and ran out of her room. "No, ii cannot be, my darling, and in such weather!" •{ . M^c^' 178 THE BASTONNAIS. : 1 1: li I But it was Pauline nevertheless. The two friends fell into each other's arms, kissed each other over and over again, and repaired together to Zulma's room, where, amid the work of unwrapping, and warming feet, and sipping a glass of wine, the congratulations and expostulations went briskly on. Paul- ine had come with Eugene Sarpy, as that young gentleman himself testified when he entered the house in noisy boyish fashion, after having put up the horse. It was a holiday at the Seminary where the youth was immured, and he had the opportunity to drive out to the old home once more. He had asked Pauline to accompany him, and she declared herself only too glad of the occasion to see Zulma again. ' " It may be our last chance, you know," she said, half laughing, but with a slight snadow on her sweet face. "And those horrid rebels," rejoined Zulma very merrily. " How did you make up you mind to encounter them?" " We did not encounter them." Zulma's face suddenly turned white. " What ? Are they gone ?" The fear flashed upon her mind that perhaps the Americans had left the neighborhood, which would account for the ab- sence of Gary during the day, but she was reassured by Paul- ine, who informed her that Eugene had avoided the American camp by taking a roundabout way through the concessions. "That must have increased y ur distance." " It did at least by four leagues, but I didn't mind that so long as we were free from danger." " You do not like these soldiers ?" " I dislike them all, except, perhaps, one." Zulma looked up in surprise. " And pray who may that one be ?" " Don't you remember the bearer of the flag?" " Oh ! " was the only exclamation that Zulma uttered, while jier checks were fit to burst with the rush of conscious bloo^, BRAIDING ST. CATHERINE'S TRESSES. 179 " Roderick has spoken to me of him in the highest terms of admiration," continued Pauline quietly. " He will doubtless be flattered to hear of this," said Zulma, with just a touch of sarcasm in her tone. But it was lost upon the gentle, unsuspicious Pauline, and Zulma, regretting the remark, immediately said : " If you had met him on your passage, he would have treated you kindly, depend upon it," and she proceeded to relate the incident of the covered bridge. One detail brought on another, and the two Itiends sat for two hours talking together, and much of the conversation turned on the Ameri- can ofificer. What two young women can tell each other in the course of two hours is something stupendous, and he would be presumptuous, indeed, who would venture upon the enumer- ation of even the topics of converse. One thing, however, may be taken for granted— that when they wen; called to supper, they kissed each other with a smack and trotted down stairs in jolly good humor. After supper the table was cleared, a large basin of maple syrup was produced, and after it was sufficiently boiled, the two friends began drawing the coils of taffy, with the assistance of Eugene, and under the eyes of Sieur Sarpy, who sat at the table sipping his wine and enjoying the amusement of the young people. Zulma's spirits had completely revived ; and she was in high feather, enlivening the occasion by songs, and anecdote and banter, while she bustled around the table playing tricks upon her brother, and teasing the gentle Pauline. Now and then she would stop suddenly as ii. to listen, and her face would assume an expression of di3a])pointed expectancy, but the shadow would disappear as raj^dly as it came. Pauline was less boisterous and talkative. She was, however, in the pleasantest state of mind, as if for this one evening, at least, she had unburdened herself of the cares which had weighed licr down during the past eventful days. Eugene, like alj •1 i i. 1 I i J 180 THE liASTONNAIS. fiJ ! 1 I f schoolboys escaped from the master's eye, was perfectly ridicu- lous in his wild gambols and inconsequential talk, but his nonsense gave zest to the merriment precisely because it was suggestive of that freedom with which the horrid front of war and the constant spectacle of armed men in the neighborhood afforded so sad a contrast. An hour had been spent in this pastime, wlien Zulma again checked herself in the conversation, and as she turned her eyes to the window, they flashed with a ray of exultation. Her long waiting had not been in vain. The weary day would still have an agreeable ending. She was certain that she heard the music of sleigh bells, and she knew who it was that had come. A moment later, there was a rap at the door of the dining-room, and Gary Singleton stood on the threshold. Zulma went rapidly forward to meet him, receiving him with a cordiality and enthusiasm which she had never previously mani- fested. After the formal introduction was made, Gary excused himself for calling so late in the evening. " Better late than never," exclaimed Zulma with an earnest indiscretion which she tried to turn off by a laugh, but which the rapid wandering of her great blue eyes showed that she was ashamed of Singleton bowed low, but there was no responsive smile upon his lip. "Thank you, mademoiselle," said he, "but a little more and I should perhaps never have returned here." There was a general expression of surprise. The young officer explained that a forward movement of the American army was about to take place, and that he had received orders that very afternoon to abandon his quarters. " The order was peremptory," he added, " and I should have had to obey it without delay, but fortunately the snow- storm came on with such violence towards evening that our departure was postponed till to-morrow morning. The oppor- . BRAIDING ST. CATHERINE'S TRESSES. 181 idicu- it his it was Df war •rhood L again ;d her tation. would lat she 'as that ioor of eshold. i with a y mani- ixcused earnest which that she [e upon more lent of Ihe had Irters. should snow- lat our oppor- tunity I regarded as providential and seized it to make what may be my last visit." The light went out of Zulma's eyes and she bowed her head. Her father broke the perplexing silence by saying cheerily : " I trust that t^is will not be your last visit, sir. Indeed, I feel, certain that we shall meet each other again. If in the varying fortunes of war, you should ever need my helj), only let me know and you shall have it." Zulma looked up and there was that imploring tenderness in her eyes which gave Gary to understand that she too, in the hour of need, would fly to his assistance. While this conversation was going on, Pauline sat a little in the background. She said not a word, but her eyes were full of tears. Gary, as he glanced around, to relieve himself of the melancholy of the moment, noticed her emotion and was strangely touched by it. He knew well wi.o she was, as Zulma had often mentioned her name to him, explaining the embar- rassing situation which the war had created for herself and family, and the relations in which she stood towards Roderick Hardinge. These marks of silent sympathy from ov\^ of ihe besieged in Quebec , and one who was tenderly attached to a leading British officer, moved him profoundly, and, from that moment, he took steps to enlarge his acquaintance with Paul- ine. By degrees the ■ -nversation turned into a inore cheerful channel, and the anxiety of the morrow being temporarily for- gotten, as young hearts will forget and are blest in forgetting, the evening passed agreeably on, and Gary had abundant opportunity of enjoying the society of Pauline. His manner and his words proved how much he was impressed with the charms of her person, and the beauty of her character, and the admiration which he expressed was reciprocated by Paul- ine in those half advances and still more eloquent reticences which are the delicious secret of loving women. Zulma was i 182 THE BASTONNAIS. SO little disconcerted by this mutual good understanding, that she openly favored it, being unable to conceal her delight that her own two best friends should be friends together. Far seeing girl as she was, she was rejoiced that, on the eve of separation and the consequent resumption of hostilities, the young Continental officer should have made the acquaintance of one who might perhaps be his saviour if the storm of war whirled him torn and bleedirig within the walls of the be- leaguered city. Divine instinct of women ! How often it stands in good stead the headlong rashness of man amid the wildering strokes of fate ! Genuine gaiety resumed its sway, and the work of taiffy- making was taken u]) again. Gary was fed with choice titbits until he was fairly satisfied and had to beg for quarter. Then, taking up a large roll of the tire, Zulma twisted it into a series of elegant and intricate plaits. The long coil flashed like a beautiful brazen serpent, as she held it up to the light, and set it beside her own golden hair. *' These are Saint Catherine's tresses !" she cried. " Who will wear them, you or I, Pauline ?" And the sally was greeted by the loud laughter of all the company, except Gary who did not understand its significance. When it was explained to him that she would wear the mysti- cal tresses who was destined to remain an old maid, he smiled as he murmured to himself : " I will see to that I" PAR NOniI.E. 183 XIX. PAR NOniLE. ) Who The evening had come to an end. Midnight had sounded and Gary Singleton had to take his departure. The whole family accompanied him to the outer door, where his sleigh was in waiting. The last words of farewell still lingered on the faltering lips of the two young women, as they stood in the em- brasure of the entrance, when, through the darkness and the pelting of the storm, Zulma noticed a shadow leaning against the house, at a few feet from her. She at once, in a loud voice, challenged it to come forward. It did so. By the feeble light of the passage she saw before her a strange, uncouth figure, wrapped in a wild-cat coat, and covered with a huge cap of fox-skin. The form was bent and the face was that of an old man, but the eyes flashed like stars. The man stood on snow- shoes, and he carried a long staff in his hand. Pauline shrank behind Zulma as she saw the apparition, and murmured : " It is Batoche !" " Yes, child, that is my name," said the old man, " and I am come to fetch you." " To fetch her ?" asked Zulma with a tone of authority. " Yes, at her father's request." *' Come in and explain what you mean." " No. It is unnecessary. Besides, the night is too far ad- vanced. We must return together at once." A few hurried words revealed Batoche's mission. The Bas- tonnais were on the forward march again. Quebec would be invested within a few hours. Large reinforcements would en- . 1 1 ,1 184 THE BASTONNATS. able the Americans to make the blockade complete. Pauline's father was extremely anxious about the return of his daughter. Batoche, who was within Quebec, escaped from it, promising his friend to carry out his wishes. If Pauline tarried she would not be allowed within the gates. Father and child would be separated. There was no time to lose. A resolution had to be made. Would Pauline come ? Lamentations and condolences were out of the question. It needed only a few words of consultation to decide upon follow- ing the old man's instructions. Gary avowed that the infor- mation given concerning military movements was correct, and offered to escort Pauline securely through the American lines. A further hardship was the parting of Sieur Sarpy and Zulma from Eugene, under the circumstances, but they made the sacrifice bravely, and the youth, it is only fair to say, acted his part with pluck. He had brought Pauline out ; he would take her back. If Zulma had followed her own impulses, she would have accompanied her brother and friend till she had seen them safe within the walls, but she was obliged to renounce this pleasure in consideration of her aged father. Batoche declined a seat in either sleigh. He returned on snow-shoes as he had gone ; and so fleet was his march through the by-ways and short paths of the country which he knew so well, that he reached the appointed destination ahead of the party. It was after six o'clock, and the dawn was just breaking when the sleighs came within sight of the gates. Gary Singleton ap- proached as near as he durst, when he stopped to take leave of his fair charge. Batoche walked directly up to the sentry, where, after a brief parley, he returned, pccompanied by a single man. " Pauline !" exclaimed the new comer, as he stood beside her, " I have been anxiously waiting for you. Gome in to the town at once." [beside to the PAR NOBILE. 185 She bent down to him and whispered something in his ear. He turned and, smiling, bowed profoundly to the American officer, who returned the salute. Gary Singleton and Roderick Hardinge had met a second time. A moment after, the whole party had disappeared and the snow covered their tracks. i ! ; END OF BOOK THE SECOND. if when ^on ap- have of isentry, by a , N IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) % -* .^Sf .V^ <:' ^. 4^ % %0 1.0 I.I 1.25 ''■ lU ||2.2 1.8 U 1111,6 III A" o p^ ^ . ^ ^ / '/ w Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4S03 ^ ^ BOOK III. I 1 THE BURSTING OF THE TEMPEST. I. QUEBEC IN 1775-76. Quebec is the most picturesque city in America. Its scenery is unrivalled. Rock, forest and water combine to make its position an unfailing charm to the student of land- scape art. As it is to-day, so was it one hundred years ago, or if there is a difference, it is in favor of the latter date, for the pick and the axe had then made fewer inroads upon the sub- lime work of nature. Quebec is the most historical city in America. One of the very oldest in date, it is by far the most notable in stirring annals. From its earliest origin, it was the theatre of import- ant events whose results stretched far beyond its walls, and swayed the destinies of the whole continent. Its records are religious, dip'"natic, military, and naval. Its great men were missionaries, statesmen, soldiers, and sailors. The heroic ex- plorers of the Far West were its sons, or went forth from its gates. Jogues looms up beside Breboiuf. Champlain and Frontenac open the luminous way along which have trod Dor- 1 u ■ 1 ; m 188 THE BASTONNAIS. Chester and Uufferin. The blended glory of Wolfe and Montcalm is immortal, and the renown is hardly less of the young, ill-fated Montgomery. Where was there ever a greater sailor than Iberville ? The history of the Mississippi Valley is linked for all time with the names of Marquette, Hennepin, Joliet, and Lasalle. It follows that in this era of centennial reminiscences, no city in America is more interesting than Quebec, and an additional charm is that we have comparative ease in placing it before the eye as it was a century ago. In the winter of 1775-76, the population was about 5,000 souls. Of these 3,200 were women and children. All the men were made to bear arms. Those who refused were ordered out of the walls. There were probably not one hun- dred English families in the town. The English language was spoken only by the military. The times were hard. Pro- visions at first were abundant, but firewood was scarce. Fortunately the winter on the whole was mild. The houses during the day were partially deserted. The men were on guard. The women were on the streets gadding. They found plenty of occupation, for the air was thick with rumors. A besieged city must perforce be a nest of gossip, a hive of cock- and-bull stories. The regulars looked smart in their regimen- tal uniforms. The militia wore such toggery as they could get — grey homespun coat with red sash, cowskin boots, and the traditional tuque bleue. The trappers not being allowed into the town, furs were rare, and women of the lower classes were obliged to go without them altogether. The centres of attraction were the guard-rooms and sentry-boxes. There the episodes of the siege were recounted. There all manner of serious and comic incidents occurred to relieve the monotony of the long winter months. The principal barracks were in Cathedral Square, in that venerable Jesuit College which is to be pulled down during the present year. The three chief out- I QUEBEC IN 1775-76. 189 posts were St. Louis, St. John, and Palace Gates. These were the three original French Gates, improved and strengthened by the great engineer, de Lery. Through them, sixteen years before, the army of Montcalm passed after its defeat on the Plains of Abraham, and then passed out again, crossing by a bridge of boats to the camp at Beauport. Through them one year later, the broken army of Murray rushed back in flight from the disastrous field of St. Foye. But for those strong gates built by the Frenchmen, the victorious army, under Levis, might have recovered Quebec, on that memora- ble day, and regained possession of New France. liitter irony of fate ! Along the avenue where Prescott Gate was afterwards erected, palisades were raised by James Thompson, Overseer of Works, to bar the advance of the Americans from that quarter, and his name, as we shall see later on, was inti- mately associated with the siege. All these defences were in Upper Town, or within the walled portion. In Lower Town and under the Cape, the eastern extremity was defended by batteries in Dog Lane or Little Sault-au-Matelot, and the western end at Pr^s-de-Ville, by a masked battery. Going from one to the other of these constituted the round of mili- • tary service. The Lower Town was chiefly guarded by militia. They went and came singing their French songs, the very best of military bands. Vive la Canadienne Et ses jolis yeux doux, then received its consecration, and the light-hearted fellows kept step to c' etait uu p'tit bonhommc and d. la daire fontaine. Along with the singing there was much good- natured conversation. War has its grim humors. One party standing in the Cul de Sac on the site of the chapel built by C >plain, made mirth at the expense of Jerry Duggan, late hair dresser in the town, who had I liii 190 THE HASTONNAIS. gone over to the enemy and was " stiled " Major amongst them. Jerry was said to be in command of five hundred Canadians, and had disarmed the inhabitants of St. Roch, a suburb of Quebec, without opposition. Another party, group- ed in front of the Chien d'Or, laughed heartily at the Canadiens Bastonnais, Canadians who had joined the rebels, because they were stationed on the ice of the river to keep patrol. " A cold reward for treason," they said. Mysterious visitors went in and out of George Allsopp's house in Sous-le- Fort street. Allsopp was chief of opposition in Cramah^'s Council. The outposts were enlivened every night by the ar- rival of deserters. Some of these were spies. The informa- tion they gave of the enemy was very puzzling. Every morn- ing at headquarters, when the roll was called, some one was found missing, having escaped to the Americans. About one third of every army cannot be depended upon. The length of the siege produced deamess of provisions, which had not been carefully husbanded from the start. So early as January, beef rated at nine pence, fresh pork at one and three, and a small quarter of mutton at thirteen shillings. Notwithstanding re- peated refusals, the besiegers periodically approached the walls with flags of truce. A needless and unaccountable courting of humiliation. Every now and again the enemy succeeded in setting fire to houses within the walls. The consequent ex- citement relieved the monotony of the blockade, and was an event to talk about. The garrison made frequent partial sorties in quest of fire-wood, sometimes successfully, sometimes un- successfully. Fatigue parties dug trenches in the snow, with- out the walls, by way of exercise or bravado. Sentinels at the Block House and other exposed points were frequently frost- bitten. A kind of sentry-box was fixed on a pole thirty feet high, at Cape Diamond. Thence could be seen the tin spire of St. Foye Church, but not the Plains of Abraham, beyond Callow's Hill, where the besiegers lay in force. Over the QUEBEC IN 1775-76. 191 the )St- feet lire Ind Ihe American camp the red-flag waved. Some thought it was the Lloody flag, by way of threat. But it was no more than a sig- nal to the prisoners within the town. About one hundred men were picked up and formed into an Invalid Company to guard these prisoners. Among this guard were some " picqued who did not formerly perceive the meanness of their behaviour," as the old chronicle tells. On dark nights rockets were sent up and large fires made on the ramparts and the high streets to confound the enemy's signals. There was much generous rivalry between the French militiamen and the British regulars. The former were greatly encouraged by the priests, who went among them familiarly in their long black robes. The Semi- nary, in Cathedral-square, where the Bishop resided, was as much frequented by the soldiery as the headquarters of Mac- Lean in the Jesuit barracks, on the other side of the square. Monseigneur Briand was as truly the defender of Quebec as General Carleton. The most curious signals of the Americans were fire-balls which burned from one in the morning till three. Whenever these were seen, the garrison prepared more active- ly for an attack. Spite of precautions on both sides, communi- cation to and from the beleaguered town was carried on to a considerable extent. A bold, active man could always go in or out from the side of the river under the Cape, or along the valley of the St. Charles. The Continentals had not men enough to effect a complete blockade, and the garrison was not sufficiently numerous to guard every obscure outlet. But spite of these deficiencies, for eight long months — from November 1775 till May 1776 — Quebec was virtually cut off from the rest of the world and the theatre of one of the most important military events in the history of America. U I li it I I 192 THE BASTONNAIS. II. CARY S MESSAGE. As soon as Pauline had entered the gates of the town, Gary Singleton leaped into his sleigh and turned his horse's head towards the camp. But before he could proceed, Batoche was at his side. The young officer had not had occasion to ex- change a single word with the singular being, but his thoughts had been much occupied with him during the long night ride, and it was with some satisfaction that he now had an oppor- tunity of addressing him. " I must thank you, sir," said he, " for your service to the young lady." " I did it for her sake, as she is my grand-daughter's god- mother. And for her father's sake, who is an old friend," re- plied Batoche, quietly. And he added immediately : " I am prepared to do you a service, sir." Gary looked at him in surprise. Was he in the presence of an enemy ? Had he fallen into an ambush from which this man was willing to rescue him ? Or if a friend, what service could he refer to ? Might it be a message to Pauline ? Strange as it may seem — and perhaps it will not appear so strange after all — the very thought, as it flashed upon him, created a throb- bing sensation in his heart. Had this little timid girl, after only a few hours' interview, so ingratiated herself into his affec- tions, that the unexpected opportunity of communicating with her once more excited a flutter of pleasurable surprise. Rapidly as these surmises passed through his mind he had not time to resolve them, before Batoche resumed in these simple words : " I am returning at once to Sieur Sarpy's." GARY S MESSAGE. 198 lly I to is : For a moment Cary was unable to make a syllable of reply. He looked hard at the old man as if to fathom his inmost thoughts. But the latter did not flinch. His countenance wore that expression of utter blankness and conscious uncon- sciousness which is an attribute of resolute men, and which only kindred spirits are gifted to understand. Cary was as much impressed by his quiet manner as he had been by his singular offer. He asked himself the following questions sharply one after the other. What did this man know of him that he should connect him in any way with the Sarpys ? How should he be in possession of the secret which had been hidden from all his comrades ? Zulma did not know him when he presented himself at her door last night. Sieur Sarpy exchanged only a few words with him, and cer- tainly did not treat him as a familiar. And who was this Batoche ? Was he a friend or an enemy of the cause of liberty ? Perhaps he was a spy ? During the interval Batoche stood immovable, while the snow piled in inches on his round shoulders, but at length, divining the thoughts of Cary, he said in a low voice : " You are returning to Sieur Sarpy's, did you say ?" " At once." " But the roads will be all blockaded." " I know all the by-paths." " Our troops are advancing and might arrest you." The old man only smiled. " I will give you a pass." Batoche took off his glove and produced from his pocket a folded paper. Cary opened it, and recognizing the signature of Colonel Meigs, returned it with a smile. " I thankfully accept your offer," said he. " Here is a little message which you will deliver to Mademoiselle Zulma." which, he wrote a few lines !! us \ m ■ i Saying pocket book. pencil 194 THE BASTONNAIS. " She will receive it at noon," said Batoche, taking the mis- sive, and without the addition of another word, he stalked away on his snow-shoes. Gary returned to camp just in time to take part in the for- ward movement of his corps. The main body did not break up its (juarters till five days later, but on the 29th November, the day on which the event just narrated took place, Morgan's riflemen were ordered to lead the van towards Quebec. That same afternoon, therefore, Singleton found himself nearly on the same spot which he had occupied in the early morning. THE UNREMRMIiERF.n RKAVE. 195 III. THE UNREMEMHERED BRAVE. The snow-storm continued in unabated violence. The low lines of the sky seemed to lie upon the earth, the sounds of nature were deadened to mystical murmurs, the long streams of flakes lay like a white curtain drawn aslant across the face of heaven, and universal silence pervaded the land. Every- body was within doors, where the exterior calm had penetrated, and where the families nestled around the hearth as if con- scious of the visible protection of God. It seemed like a de- secration that this holy silence should be disturbed by the iron tread of armed men, and that the peace sent down from above with every grain of snow should be violated by designs of vengeance and the thirst of human blood. Unseen through the storm, the riflemen of Virginia advanced towards the grey walls of the devoted town. Unheard through the tempest, the garrison of the ancient capital moved to the gates and ram- parts. Unseen and unheard, the armies of Arnold and Mont- gomery, which had now combined, were making their last pre- parations to depart from. Pointe-aux-Trembles and march for the final catastrophe in this dread tragedy of war. Sieur Sarpy sat in his arm-chair after dinner, absorbed in the reading of a book, and apparently under the blessed influence of the peaceful, noiseless weather. From the staidness of his manner, it was evident that he had forgotten the events of the previous night, and was unconscious or oblivious of what was going on among the belligerents around Quebec. He was interrupted in his occupation by the entrance of the maid, who announced the arrival of Batoche. The sound of ii i. '.'i r I ! 19C THK BASTONNAIS. 1! the name surprised him a little, but without moving from his seat, he said (|uietly : " Show him up." The two old men had not been many minutes together be- fore they understood each other well. They were both of an age, and had known one another in former and better days. After the usual preliminaries of recognition were gone through, Batoche said : " I have been on my legs for fourteen hours, and must re- turn whence I came before night. I am old now and have not the endurance of fifteen years ago. Hence I must be brief, although my business is of the greatest importance. Please give me all your attention for half an hour." Sieur Sarpy closed his book and holding up his right hand, asked : " Is the business political or personal." " Hoth. There is a question of crime on the one hand, and of mercy on the other. I appeal to your humanity." At that moment Zulma aj)peared at the door of the room, but was about to withdraw at once, when Batoche turned to- wards her, and with a sweetness of manner that one would never have suspected in him, said : " I hope mademoiselle will enter. I have no secret for her. Wo all know that she is her father's trusted counsellor. And mademoiselle will be pleased to learn that hor brother and her friend, little Pauline, have entered safely within the gates of Quebec, and that the young officer, having rejoined his com- mand, is now somewhere near the walls of the town. Before parting from him this morning, he requested me to hand you this little note." Zulma's hand trembled as she took the paper, but she did not open it. When she was seated, Batoche immediately re- sumed : " You are aware that Governor Carleton has arrived in Quebec ?" THE UNREMEMBERED HRAVE. 197 " Yes, we hcird ihi guns of the Citadel proclaiming the event," replied Sienr Sarpy. " That happened just ten days ago. It was the most ter- rible blow yet struck against our cause." *' Your cause, liatochc ?" said Sieur Sarpy, looking up. " Aye, my cause, your cause, the cause of us all. See here, M. Sarpy, this is no time for mincing words. We must stand up and take a part in this war. We did not provoke it, but it has come and we must join it. You may prefer to remain neutral. I do not say you are wrong. Your health is poor, you have a young daughter, you have large estates. But for me and hundreds like me, there is only one course, I am an old French soldier, M, Sarpy, Remember that. I fought on those plains yonder under the noble Marquis. I fought at St. Foye under the great Chevalier, I have seen this beautiful country snatched from France, For sixteen long years I have seen the wolves at work tearing from us the last shreds of our patrimony. They killed my daughter. They have made an outcast of me, I have prayed that the day of vengeance might come, I knew it would come. I heard it coming like distant thunder in the voice of the waterfall. I heard it coming in the wild throbbings of my violin. And, thank (iod, it has come at last ! These Americans advance to meet us. They stretch out the right hand of fraternity. They unfurl the flag of liberty. They too suffer from the tyranny of England, and they ask us to join them in striking off the fetters of slavery. Shall we not act with them ?" Sieur Sarpy's head fell upon his breast and he answered not, Zulma sat fonvard in her chair, with dilated eyes fastened on the face of the speaker, and her own features aglow with the enthusiasm that shot from him like living electric tongues. Batochewho had risen from his seat during this impassion- ed outburst, now resumed it, and proceeded in more subdued language : . :( ti- r ini Ml 198 THE BASTONNAIS. li. " If Carleton had not returned to Quebec the war would perhaps be ended now. He was beaten everywhere in the upper country, at IsIe-aux-Noix, at Chambly, at Longueuil, at St. Johns. He fled from Montreal without striking a blow. All his men surrendered there and at Sorel. All his ships were captured. All his stores were seized. And do you know how he escaped ?" " In an open boat, I am told." " Yes, in an open boat. He passed at Sorel, where the Am- ericans were watching for him, and the oars were mufiled in their locks so that he could not be heard. The boat was even paddled with open hands in the most dangerous places." Zulma listened eagerly to these details, which she had not heard before. Sieur Sarpy's single remark was : '* Wonderful !" " And do you know who piloted him ?" " Captain Bouchette, I believe." " Yes, Joseph Bouchette. And what is Joseph Bouchette?" " A French Canadian !" exclaimed Zulma, unable to con- tain herself. '* Aye, mademoiselle, a French Canadian. But for this Joseph Bouchette, a French Canadian, Carleton would never have reached Quebec, and the war would now be ended." " By this you mean that the Americans would have Quebec, the only place in all Canada that is net theirs already," said Sieur Sarpy, with considerable energy. " Just so. Now, it is about this Joseph Bouchette that I have come to see you." Both Zulma and her father involuntarily started. Batoche continued : " Bouchette has committed a great crime. He has been guilty of treason against his countrymen. He must perish. There are hundreds who think like me, but are afraid to strike. I am not afraid to strike. He will suffer by my hand The THE UNREMEMBERED BRAVE. 199 (( (( (( only question is the mode of punishment. Murder is repug- nant to my feelings. Besides it would not be polite. The man was perhaps sincere in his devotion to Carleton, though I believe that he rather looked to the reward. But if sincere, that ought to be considered in mitigation of his sentence. Furthermore, he is a friend of M. Belmont, and that too shall count in his favor. I had intended to seize him and deliver him as a prisoner of war to the Bastonnais." Sieur Sarpy made a solemn gesture of deprecation. " Are you serious, Batoche ?" he asked. " Serious ?" said the old man with that wild strange look characteristic of his preternatural moods. " Bouchette is safe." " Not from me." He is well guarded." I will break through any guard." But you cannot enter the town." " I can enter whenever I like." " When inside, you will not be able to come out." " The weasel makes an invisible hole, which is never filled up." Zulma listened with riveted eye, set lip, and distended nos- tril. Sieur Sarpy smiled. " You will kidnap Bouchette ?" " I will." " And fetch him to the American camp ?" " Yes." " Well, what of that ? Bouchette is no friend of mine. I know him only by name. How does all this concern me ?" " Precisely. That is just what I have come for." Sieur Sarpy looked at his curious interlocutor with renewed interest, not unblended with concern. " I have come from, and in the name of, M. Belmont, He knows of my plan and has tried to dissuade me from it. Bu( I I' 200 THE BASTONNAIS. !is 'i i I in vain. He might warn Bouchette or betray me to the gar- rison, but he is too loyal to France for that. He respects my secret. This, however, does not prevent him from striving to help his friend. He said to me, ' Batoche, if you must make a prisoner of Joseph Bouchette, go first to Sieur Sarpy and ask him whether he would receive him in his house on parole. He would thus be relieved of much unnecessary suffering, at the same time that he would be out of the way of doing you further mischief.' After some hesitation, I accepted this pro- posal of my friend, and here I am to communicate it to you." " I do not accept," said M, Sarpy curtly and decidedly. " I would be ashamed to have a countryman of mine a prisoner in my house. If I took part in this war, I should do so openly, but so long as I remain on neutral ground, I will not allow my premises to be violated by either party. If Bouchette deserves to suffer, let him suffer to the full." "Then he will suffer to the full," said Batoche rising rapidly and seizing his cap. " No, he will not," exclaimed Zulma also rising and facing the old soldier. *' M, Bouchette did only his duty. He has his opinions as you and I have. He has been faithful to those opinions. He has done a brave deed. He has shed ^lory on his countrymen instead of disgrace. Who constituted you his judge ? What right have you to punish him ? M. Belmont keeps your secret ? I am surprised. I will not keep it. I do not consider it a secret. Even if it were, I would violate it. Promise me that you will desist. In the name of France, in the name of honor, in the name of religion, I call upon you to abandon your project. If you do not, I will this moment leap into a sleigh, drive to Quebec, find my way within the walls, seek M. Bouchette and tell him all. What do you say ?" During this impassioned harangue, the face of Batoche was a study. First there was surprise, then amazement, then in- credulity, then consternation, then perplexity, then utter THE UNRKMEMBERED PRAVE. 201 collapse. It was evident that the old soldier had never en- countered such an adversary before her. The animated beauty of the speaker no less than her stirring words magnetised him, and, for a few moments, he could not reply, but his native cun- ning gradually awoke and he said slyly : " Very well, mademoiselle, but what would the young officer say ?" Without noticing the covert allusion, Zulma answered promptly : " The American officers are all gentlemen. They admire bravery and devotion wherever they see it, and they would not take unfair advantage of any enemy. But that is neither here nor now. Answer me. Do you persevere in your intention or not?" " Mademoiselle, Joseph Bouchette owes his liberty to you," said Batoche, and, bowing, he walked out of the room. Sieur Sarpy attempted to detain him, but without success. He went silently and swiftly as he had come. An author has said that a wonderful book might be written on Forgotten Heroes. Joseph Bouchette was one of them. By piloting the Saviour of Canada in an open boat from Mont- real to Quebec, he performed the most brilliant and momen- tous single service during the whole war of invasion. And yet his name is hardly known. No monument of any kind has been raised to his memory. Nay more, after the lapse of a hundred years, the material claims of the Bouchette family have been almost entirely ignored. u M if i ( ■ , i 202 THE BASTONNAIS. IV. PRACTICAL LOVE. When Zulma found herself alone in her room, she opened the note of Gary Singleton. She noticed that it was moist and crumpled in her hand. It had been a sore trial to wait so long before acquainting herself with its contents, but she felt, as some sort of compensation, that it had served to jperve her to the animated dialogue which she had held with Batoche. " That paper," she said, " urged me to be brave. I knew that he who had written it would have expressed the same sen- timents under the circumstance." The note was very brief and simple. It read thus : *' Mademoiselle, — "I desired to speak to you last night a parting word, but I could not. I am gone from you, but whither, I cannot tell. The future is a blank. May I ask this grace ? Should I fall, will you cherish a slight remembrance of me ? Your memory will be with me to the last. Your friendship has been the one ray of light in the darkness of this war. Should I survive, shall we not meet again ? " Your devoted servant, " Gary Singleton." When Zulma had read the letter once, she smoothed it out gently on her knee, threw her head back into her chair, and closed her eyes. After an interval of full five minutes, she roused herself and took up the paper again. ' This time the cheek ^ hite, the eye quenched, and the broad forehead seemec 'oly to droop under the weight of a gathering care. " Five lines .... eighty-four words .... lead pencil .... paper torn from pocket book . . . . " PRACTICAL LOVE. 203 nd |he he ad Ire. These were the only words she said, the effect of a mental calculation so characteristic of her sex. But swifter than words could have spoken, she went through the whole contents of the letter, »"eplying to its every expressed point, supplying its ever)' insinuation, and supplementing the effect of it all by her own kindred thoughts and feelings. He had desired to speak to her last night as they parted in the snow-storm at the door of the lower hall. She had ex- pected that word of farewell. It was to have been the culmi- nation of the evening, the crystallisation of all the undefined and unexpressed sentiment which had passed between them. If he had not spoken, either through emotion, timidity, or from whatever cause, she would have done so. The presence of Pauline would have been no obstacle. The presence of her father would have been no obstacle. The presence of her father would have been rather an incentive. But at the su- preme moment, the shadow of Batoche fell upon the lighted door, like a blight of fate, the current of all their thoughts were turned elsewhere, and the exquisite opportunity was lost. And now he was gone. Alas ! It was only too true to say that neither he nor she knew what future lay in store for him. The soldier always carries his life in his hands, and the chances of death are tenfoldin his case. When he spoke of their friendship and asked a slight re- membrance, her own heart was the lexicon which gave the true interpretation to words that appeared timid on paper. Zulma was too brave a girl to hide the real meaning of her feelings from herself, nor would she have feared to confess them to anybody else. Least of all, in her opinion, should Gary ignore them. In other circumstances she would have preferred the lingering indefiniteness and the grav^ual developments which are perhaps the sweetest of all phases of love, but in the midst of danger, in the presence of death, there could be no hesita- tion, and Zulma concluded her long meditation with two prac- V i i •J '■ III . ' H-' 204 THE BASTONNAIS. It I tical resolves — the first, an instant answer to the note, the sec ond, the devising of means to meet Gary again during the pro- gress of hostilities. When these determinations were made, her features resumed their usual serenity, her beautiful head rose in its old pride of carriage, and something very like a saucy laugh fluttered over her lips. " I am sorry I offended old Batoche," she murmured, fold- ing the paper and hiding it in her bosom. '* He would have been just my man." She had scarcely uttered the words when her father entered and said : " Batoche asks to see you, my dear." ZULMA AND BATOCHE. 205 d )f d i- re ZULMA AND BATOCHE. The old soldier made his appearance at once. He held his cap in his hand, his head was bowed, and he appeared slightly disconcerted. " You have returned, Batoche," said Zulma, rising and ad- vancing towards him. "I have returned, mademoiselle." " You are not offended with me, then ?" " Mademoiselle ! " " Batoche, I am delighted to see you," The old man looked up, and satisfied that the welcome was sincere, said : " I had walked nearly two miles, thinking of all you had told me, and forgetting everything else. Suddenly I remem- bered something. I stopped. I reflected- 1 returned at once and here I am." Zulma burst out laughing : "What did you remember, Batoche?" " That perhaps you might desire to send an answer to the note which I brought. Excuse me, mademoiselle, I was young once. I know what girls are." And his little grey eyes twinkled. Zulma laid her hand upon his shoulder, and with a half serious, half jesting caress, replied : " They call you sorcerer, Batoche. How could you thus divine my thoughts ? Listen. It is an hour since you left me. During that time I have been occupied reading the note and reflecting upon it. I ended by deciding to answer it at once. il ■ ) 11 i \y',\ \\\ I » - 8 206 THE BASTONNAIS. If; ■ii But where was my messenger? I thought of you, and was expressing regret at your departure, when you were an- nounced." Batoche's face beamed with pleasure. Not only was he satisfied with the result of his sagacity, but it afforded him the keenest joy to be able to render a service to Zulma after the semblance of altercation which had taken place between them. In the strife of generosity the old soldier was not to be out- done, and he was rather flattered to believe that, if anything, the balance was to be in his favour. He gave expression to none of these thoughts, however. He contented himself with observing that, as the afternoon was advancing, and he must reach Quebec by nightfall, it was desirable that Zulma should make as little delay as possible. " Certainly, Batoche," she replied. " If you will sit down a moment, I will write a few lines." He did as he was desired. Zulma went to her writing table, spread out her paper and with great deliberation proceeded to her task. She wrote with a firm, running hand, and as from an overflowing mind, without stopping to gather her thoughts. No emotion was perceptible on her features — no distension of the eye, no flush of the cheek. She looked like a copying clerk, inditing a mechanical business letter. This " circum- stance did not escape the observation of Batoche. His know- ledge of human nature led him at once to the conclusion that such wonderful self-possession must be the key to other ad- mirable qualities, which, joined to the spirit which she had displayed in her defence of Captain Bouchette, convinced him that he was in the presence of one who, when occasion required, would be likely to play the part of a heroine. And what added to his silent enthusiasm was her matchless beauty as she sat opposite him, her shapely bust rising grandly above the little table and curving gracefully to its task, while the head, poised just a trifle to one side, revealed a fair white face 2ULMA AND BATOCHE. 207 upon which the light of the window fell slantingly. For such wild solitary natures as that of Batoche the charms of female beauty are irresistible from their very novelty, and the old hunter's fascination was so great that he there and then resolved to cultivate Zulma's acquaintance thoroughly. " Who can tell," he said to himself, " what role this splen- did creature is destined to act in the drama that is opening out before us ? I know she is a rebel at heart. That proud white neck will never submit to the yoke of English tyranny. She is born for freedom. There is no chain that can bind those beautiful limbs. I will have an eye over her. I will be her protector. Her friendship — is it only friendship? — with the young Bastonnais is another link that attaches her to me. I will follow her fortunes." Zulma finished her letter with a flourish, folded it, addressed it, and, rising, handed it to Batoche. " I did not keep you waiting, you see. Deliver this at your earliest opportunity and accept ray thanks. Is there anything that I can do for you in return ?" Batoche drooped his eyes and hesitated. " Do not fear to speak. We are perfect friends now." " There is something I would like to ask, mademoiselle, but should never have dared if you had not suggested it." " What is it, Batoche ? " " I have a granddaughter, little Blanche." "Yes." " She has been my inseparable companion from her infancy." "Yes." " Now that the war has broken out, she is much alone, and that troubles me." "Where is she?" " In our cabin at Montmorenci. Pauline Belmont desired to keep her in Quebec during the siege, but to this I would not consent, because I could not see her as often as I wished." mi! t '• 5 !■ 208 THE HASTONNAIS. " Let me have the child, Batoche. I will replace her god- mother as well as I can." " I thank you from the bottom of my heart, mademoiselle, but that is not precisely what I meant. I could not part from her for good, neither would she leave me. All I ask is this. I may be absent from my hut for days at a time. You know what military service is." " Military service ? " " Yes, mademoiselle, I am a soldier once more." "You mean.. . . ?" " I am enrolled among the Bastonnais." " Bravo 1" exclaimed Zulma. "Wh^enever you have to ab- sent yourself from home fetch Blanche to me." , f How little either Zulma or Batoche suspected what strange events would result from this incident. THE HALL AT THK CASTLK. 209 ►d- le, is. )W ib- VI. THE BALL AT THE CASTLE. On the evening of that same day, the ist December, there was high festival within the walls of Quebec. A great ball was given at the Castle to celebrate the arrival of Governor Carleton. There was a twofold sentiment in the minds of all guests which enhanced the pleasure of the entertainment — gratification at the Governor's providential escape from all the perils of his voyage from Montreal to Quebec, and the assur- ance that his presence would procure a gallant and successful defenct of the town against the besiegers. The attendance was both large and brilliant. Never had the old Chateau beheld a gayer scene. The French families vied with the English in doing honour to the occasion. Patriotism seemed to revive in the breasts of the most lukewarm, and many, whose standing had hitherto been dubious, came forward in the courtliest fashion to proclaim their loyalty to King George in the person of his representative. But M. Belmont was not one of these. When he first heard of the preparations for the ball, he grew very serious. " It is a snare," he said, " set to entrap us." A day or two later, when he received a formal invitation, he was so truly distressed that he fell into a fever. " Happy malady," he muttered, " I shall now have a valid excuse." Pauline nursed him with her usual tenderness, but could not extract from him the cause of his illness. She had heard, of course, of the great event which was the talk of the whole town, but never suspected that her father had been invited, 210 THE RASTONNAIS. and it was, therefore, with no misgiving that she accepted, at his solicitation, Eugene's offer of a tri[) to the Sarpy mansion, the particulars of which have already been set before the reader. A few hours after her departure, Batoche suddenly made his appearance with the startling intelligence that the Bastonnais would return the next day to begin the regular siege of the town, and the anxious father commissioned him to set out and bring back his daughter at once. In the course of the same evening Roderick Hardinge called and was very much concerned to learn the absence of Pauline, but was partially reassured when M. Belmont informed him of her expected speedy return. Roderick's visit was short, owing to some undefined constraint which he observed in the cpversa- tion of M. Belmont, and it was perhaps on that account also that he omitted stating the reason why he particularly desired to speak to Pauline. We have seen that he was waitifig at the outer gate when she drove up in the early morning accompa- nied by Batoche and Gary Singleton. As soon as they found themselves alone and safe within the town, Roderick said abruptly : " I would not have had you absent to-day for all the world." Pauline noticed his agitation and naturally attributed it to his fears for her personal safety, but she was soon urideceived when he added : " You must by all means come to the ball with me this even- ing, my dear." " To the ball ?" she asked with no feigned surprise, because the events of the preceding day and night had completely driven the recollection of it from her mind, " Yes, the Governor's ball." It was in vain that she pleaded the suddenness of the invita- tion, her want of preparation, and the great fatigue which she had just undergone. Roderick would admit no excuse. His manner was nervous, excited, and at times almost peremptory. II I THE BALL AT THE CASTLE. 211 " And my father ?" she urged as a last argument. " I saw your father last night. He complained of being unwell and evidently cannot come." The slight emphasis which Roderick, in his rapid utterance, placed on the word "cannot" was not lost on his sensitive companion. She looked up at him with a timorous air. "And what if my father will not let me go?" she asked almost in a whisper. " Oh, but he will. He must, Pauline." Her eyes were raised to his again, and he met them frankly. " I^t me be plain with you, my dear. If you will not go to the ball for my sake, you must go for your father's sake. Do you understand?" She did understand, though for a few moments she had no words to utter. After advancing a few steps, she took her hand out of her muff, laid it in that of Hardinge, and without raising her eyes, murmured : " I will go, Roddy, for his sake and yours." This preliminary being satisfactorily arranged, Hardinge accompanied her to the door of her home, and after advising her to spend the day in resting from her emotions and fatigue, promised to call for her early in the evening. He did so. To his surprise he found her cheerful and with- out the least sign of weariness or reluctance in her manner. She was arrayed in a rich and most tasteful costume, which gave a splendid relief to her quiet, simple beauty. To his further surprise he found M. Belmont in an agreeable mood, though still ailing. He was pleased to say that he quite approved of his daughter attending the ball, and especially in the company of Roderick Hardinge. " This is another instalment of the reparation which I owe you, Roddy," he said, with a smile. " I confide Pauline to you to-night, and I do not know that I would do the same for any other young fellow in Quebec." % ■ 11 ^ 11! 212 THE BASTONNAIS. Of course no more was needed to put Hardinge in the most exuberant good spirits, and when he drove off with Pauline, he hardly knew what he was doing. The ball was opened when they reached the Castle. The Governor who had led in the first dance, or dance of honour, took part in a third and fourth, mingling freely with all the guests, apparently disposed to secure as many friends for him- self and cause as possible. During this interval, Pauline and Roderick glided into the hall almost unnoticed, but it was not long before they were called upon to take part in the dance, and at once they attracted general attention. Nor was there cause to wonder at this. The young Scotchman looked par- ticularly handsome in his dazzling scarlet tunic, while Pauline, in her rich robes of crimson satin and sprigs of snowy jasmine twined in her simple headdress, revealed a warm, ripe, glowing beauty, which was a surprise even to her most intimate friends. After a time, the Governor took up his position on the dais, at the extremity of the room, directly in front of the Chair of State and under the violet fringes of the canopy. The Royal Arms flashed triumphantly behind him, while on the panels of the walls, to the right and left, his own cipher was visible. Those of the guests who had not yet been pre- sented to his Excellency, seized this opportunity to pay their respects. Roderick and Pauline were of the number. As they approached the foot of the throne, they were joined by de Cramahe, the Lieutenant-Governor. This courtly man bowed profoundly to both and said : ** Lieutenant, I have a duty to perform, and you will please allow me to perform it. I desire to present mademoiselle and yourself to his Excellency." So saying, and without waiting for a reply, he urged them forward to the viceregal presence. Carleton received Pauline with the most deferential polite- ness, and added to the compliment by a kindly inquiry con- ' THE BALL AT THE CASTLE. 213 ceming the health of her father. Pauline trembled like a leaf at this phase of the interview, and timidly looked up to assure herself that the Governor was really earnest in his question. But his open manner dispelled all doubt, and thus, to the in- finite relief of the girl, the sole drawback to her thorough enjoyment of the evening was removed. Then her companion's turn came. " Lieutenant Hardinge," said de Cramahtf. " Hardinge?" replied the Governor, extending his hand and bending his head to one side, as if trying to recollect some- thing in connection with the name. " Yes," rejoined de Cramahd. •' Your Excellency will remember. He is the young officer whose exploits I recounted to you." "Aye, aye!" exclaimed Carleton. "I do remember very well. Hardinge is a familiar name to me. This gentleman's father was a brother officer of mine under Wolfe. Yes, yes, I remember everything." And taking Roderick's right hand in both his, he added aloud, so that the promotion might be as public as possible : " Captain Hardinge, I have the honour to congratulate you," (1 I J 5 1)1 • ♦! h ill 214 THE BASTONNAIS. VII. THE ATTACK OF THE MASKS. I The ball concluded, as was the invariable custom at the State balls of the time, with that most graceful and picturesque of all dances, the Menuet de la Cour, which, brought over from France during the reign of Louis XIIL, had enjoyed great popularity throughout the Province until the Conquest, and was retained by the British Governors of Quebec until a comparative recent period. The pas marche, the assemble, the pas grave, the pas bourn, and the pirouette were all executed with faultless precision and stately beauty by a double set of eight chosen from among the best dancers in the room. The rest of the company was ranged in groups around the walls, some watching the figures with eyes of critical inquiry, others observing the costumes of the dancers and their involved movements with a simple sense of enjoyment. The rhythmic swaying of handsome men and women in the mazes of a dance often produces on the bystanders a sensation of poetic dreaminess, quite independent of the accompanying music, and which may be traced directly to the magnetism of the human form. It is only true to say that nobody in the Menuet elicited more sympathy and admiration than Pauline Belmont. The perfection of her dancing, the sweetness of her face, the modesty of her demeanour, and the childlike reliance which she seemed to place on the cooperation of her stalwart partner, Roderick Hardinge, were traits which could not pass unob- served, and more than once when she swung back into position after the culmination of a figure, she was greeted with murmurs THE ATTACK OF THE MASKS. 215 the of applause. Several gallant old Frenchmen, who looked on humming the music which they knew so well, signified their approval by words allied to their subdued chat. Finally, when the second strain was over, the peculiar nineteen bars had been played, the Chatne Anglaise had been made, and the honours performed by profound salutations to the distin- guished company and to the respective partners, the execu- tants retired from the floor and were immediately set upon by a mob of congratulating friends. Among them, the portly form of Carleton, with his white shaven face, and large pleas- ant eyes, was prominent. He addressed his felicitations to several of the dancers, and thanked them for the splendid termination which they had given to the festival. Near them stood his friend Bouchette, who had been one of the lions of the evening, and who improved these last moments with a few words of lively conversation with Pauline. " This has been a magnificent ball," said he, " worthy of our Governor and worthy of old Quebec, but what is a particular source of pride to me is that the belle of the evening has been a countrywoman of mine. You have shed glory on your race, mademoiselle. I will not fail to report this to my old friend, M. Belmont, and I am sure the delight he will experi- ence will be a compensation for his absence." Pauline blushed as she heard these compliments, and clung more closely to the arm of Hardinge. She faltered a few words of thanks, but her confusion was not relieved till the interviev/ closed by the pressure of the crowds breaking up and making their way to the cloakrooms. Shortly afterwards, the gay company had entirely dispersed, the lights in the Castle were extinguished one by one, and silence reigned where, only half an hour before, light feet beat time to the soft music of viol and bassoon, and the echoes of merry voices resounded through the halls. One of the guests, who had tarried longer than all the ■I 1 . H i I 216 THE RASTONNAIS. 1. 1 M Others, issued alone and proceeded in the direction of Cathedral Square. Three o'clock pealed from the turret as he passed. The night was dark and of that dull, lustreless aspect which not even the white snow on roof and footpath could relieve. Not another soul was in the streets. The long square houses were wrapped in sleep. The solitary walker was of middle size and apparently in the prime of life. A fur coat was loosely thrown over his evening dress. His step was free and elastic, and he swung an ivory-headed cane in his right hand. He was evidently in the best of spirits, as a man should be who has dined well, danced to his heart's content, ?nd spent an agreea- ble evening in the society of his superiors, and the company of handsome women. When he reached the large stockade erected where Prescott Gate was afterwards built, he paused a moment in front of the guard, who seemed to recognize him and opened the wicket without the exchange of a pass word. He then began the de- scent of the steep and tortuous Mountain Hill, walking briskly indeed, but with hardly a perceptible acceleration of the pace which he had held previously. It was not long before he at- tained the foot of the Hill, and he was about turning the very dark comer which led into Peter street, where he resided, when his step was suddenly arrested by a shrill whistle on his left. He looked around, and listened, tightening his great coat over his breast, and grasping his cane with a firmer hand. He stood thus for several seconds, but hearing nothing more except the flow of the St. Lawrence, a few yards ahead of him, he at- tributed the sound to some sailor's craft in the harbour, and confidently resumed his march. He had not proceeded more than a few feet, however, when five men, muffled and masked, issued from a lane in the rear, threw themselves upon him and dragged him to the ground. Resistance was vain. The kid- nappers gagged him, wreiiched his cane from his hand, and THE ATTACK OF THE MASKS. 217 covered his face with a cloak. They were about to drag him away, when a sixth figure bounded upon the scene. " Halt !" was his single cry in French. The men stopped. " Release your prisoner." They obeyed instantly and without a remonstrance. " Ungag him." They ungagged him. " Restore him his cane." The cane was immediately returned. As soon as the prisoner felt himself free, and in possession of a weapon, he leaped out into the middle of the street and faced his enemies like the brave man that he was. He chafed, and fumed, and brandished his cane. " What does this mean ?" he cried. No answer. " Who are you ?" Still no reply. " Do you know who I am ?" " Yes," said the chief, in a low cold voice, " You are Joseph Bouchette. We know you well. But go. You are free. You owe your liberty to an intervention superior to the hatred and vengeance of all your enemies. Thank God for it." Bouchette, for it was indeed he, was dumb-founded and did not stir. The chief repeated his order of dismissal in atone that could not admit of denial, and the doughty sailor, without uttering another word, turned on his heel and walked leisurely to his home. The masked men stood in a group looking at each other and at their chief. " You have astounded us," said Barbin to the latter. " Possibly," was the quiet reply. " But this is no time for explanations. Hurry out of the town and seek your hiding *■ t. I ^^ ' i 218 THE BASTONNAIS. I places in the forest. The morning is far advanced and it will soon be day. As for me, I have had no rest these two days and nights. I will creep into some hole and sleep." " Goodnight then," they all said as they slunk into the shadow. " Goodnight." In the dreams of the tired Batoche, that night, was blended the sweetest music of the waterfall, and it seemed to him that there hovered over his couch the white spirit of Clara thanking him for the deed of mercy which he had wrought. ;) tJNCdWSCtbt^S dRlSA'fNESS. 219 VIII. UNCONSCIOUS GREATNESS. It was more than a deed of mercy. It was politic as well. After Bouchette returned home, he was so agitated that he could not sleep. His chief concern was to know why he had been attacked and who were the men who attacked him. It was clear that the assault was the result of a deliberate plot. There was the rallying whistle. There was the disguise of the men. There was the gag all ready to hand. And his rescuer ? Who could he be ? and especially what could mean the strange words which he had uttered ? Gradually, as he became calmer, he was enabled to grasp all the elements of the situation, and at length the truth dawned upon him. He had been singled out for revenge by some of his discontented countrymen because of the service he had rendered the Governor-General. When he had satisfied him- self himself of this, his first impulse was to rush to the Castle, announce the outrage to Carleton himself, and head a terrible crusade against all the rebel French. But, with a moment's reflection, his better nature prevailed. " Never," he exclaimed, as he paced his room. " Never, I am a Frenchman before all. Loyalty to England does not re- quire treason to my own countrymen. The personal insult and injury I can forgive. Besides, was I not rescued by an act of chivalry ? If I have enemies among my own people, is it not evident that I have friends as well ? No. I will not allow a word concerning this aifair to escape my lips. If it becomes public it shall be through no fault of mine." Having relieved his mind by this act of magnanimity, he ■«.■ 3. 220 THE BASTONNAIS. !■) threw himself upon a lounge and soon fell asleep. The sun was already high in the heavens, and it streamed into the room, but did not disturb the slumbers of the mariner who reposed as calmly as if he had not passed thruogh a struggle for his life and liberty. It was noon when he awoke. Sitting up on the edge of his bed, some seconas elapsed before recollection went back to this event, and when it did, he simply said : " I will now go and see my friend Belmont." Meantime, at M. Belmont's the matter had advanced a stage or two. Batoche had found his way there after dismissing his associates, and, without disturbing the inmates, had entered by means of a private key given by his friend. He had gone to sleep at once, and it was eleven o'clock in the forenoon before he arose. His first step was to seek the presence of M. Bel- mont. To him he recounted the conversation he had had with Sieur Sarpy, and the singular part which Zulma had taken in it. M. Belmont listened with mingled surprise and concern. When Batoche continued and described the adventure of the preceding night, he became quite alarmed. " This is terrible, Batoche," said. The old man did what was very unusual with him. He smiled. " There is nothing terrible about it, sir. Even if Bouchette had been captured, there would have been nothing terrible. Bouchette is not such a very important personage, and our men have no fears of retribution. They are quite able to take care of themselves. But I had promised Zulma that the man would not be disturbed, and I simply kept my promise. I was near being too late. It was far past midnight when I reached the town, after a weary tramp from Pointe-aux-Trembles. I knew all about the ball and that, of course, Bouchette would be there. We had planned to seize him on his way home from the Castle. Everything turned out as had been anticipated. Our men did their work to perfection. They acted with UNCONSCIOUS GREATNESS. 221 He bravery and intelligence. It was a pity to spoil their success." " Did you not arrive upon the scene in advance ?" " Yes, a few moments before the assualt." " Then why did you not prevent it altogether ?" " I hadn't the heart to do it. I wanted to give my men and myself that much satisfaction. I wanted to see how my companions would do their duty. Besides, although I had promised not to kidnap Bouchette, I did not promise that I would not give him a good scare." " Scare ?" interrupted M. Belmont contemptuously, " Bou- chette is as brave a man as lives." " Right enough," said Batoche with a giggle. " He show- ed fight and brandished his cane like a man. So far as scaring went, the attack was a failure." " The whole thing was a failure, Batoche. It will ruin us. It will drive me out of the town. I suppose the garrison is in an uproar about it by this time." " The assailants are not known and cannot be discovered." " Exactly, and therefore the innocent will be suspected. Your great mistake was in doing the thing by halves. A real abduction would not have been so bad, for then the victim would not have been there to tell his story. As it is, he has no doubt told it to everybody, and there is no foreseeing what the consequences will be." Batoche did not reply, but there was something in his man ner which showed that he felt very little repentance for what he had done. At this point of the colloquy the servant came to the door and announced Captain Bouchette. M. Belmont was thunderstruck. Batoche remained perfect- ly impassive. " Show him up," at length faltered M. Belmont. Batoche made a movement to rise, but his companion stop- ped him abruptly. \ ■ 1 1 ^ il !l;i li j I 1 222 THE BASTONNAIS. " Do not Stir," he said. " Your presence may be useful." Bouchette came striding in boisterously and in the fullest good humour. He embraced his old friend with effusion, and accepted the introduction to Batoche in a genial, off-hand fashion. Of course this conduct put a new aspect on affairs, and M. Belmont was set quite at ease. Bouchette opened at once with an account of the great ball. He said that he had come purposely for that. He described all its phases in his own unconventional way, and especially dilated on the share that Pauline had taken in it. He grew eloquent on this par- ticular theme. He assured M. Belmont that he ought to be proud of his daughter, as she had made the laost favourable impression on all the guests and particularly on the Governor. There is no exaggeration in saying that this was positively delightful to the anxious father, and that, under the circum- stances, it went far towards restoring his peace of mind. It was, therefore, no wonder that the conversation, thus initiated, flowed on in a continuous channel of gaiety, in which even Batoche joined at intervals, and after his own peculiar man- ner. He said very little, indeed, perhaps not over a dozen words, but he chuckled now and again, rolled about in his seat and gave other tokens of satisfaction at the turn which things were taking. This, however, did not prevent him, . from the comparative obscurity of the corner which he occupied, close- ly watching the features of the visitor, and studying all his movements. At length, at a convenient turn of the conversation, M. Bel- mont inquired of his friend what the news of the day might be. "Oh, nothing that I know of," replied Bouchette prompt- ly, and quite unconcernedly. " I have just got out of my bed and came here directly." If a mountain had been trken from the shoulders of poor M. Belmont, he could not have felt more relief than he did on UNCONSCIOUS GREATNESS. 223 hearing these few words. He simply could not contain his joy. Leaping up from his seat, he slapped his friend on the shoulder, and exclaimed : " Well, Bouchette, we shall have a glass of wine, some of my best old Burgundy. Your visit has done me a world of good." The little grey eyes of Batoche were fixed like gimlets on the wall opposite, at the line where it touched the ceiling. There was a glassy light in them. He had gone off suddenly into one of his absent moods. But it was only for a moment. Recovering himselt, he too rose abruptly from his seat, bring- ing his right arm down with a bang upon his thigh, and mut- tering a few inarticulate words. The wine was quaffed with pledges and bons mots. A second round of glasses was indulged in, and when the interview closed at length, Bouchette thundered out of the house as heartily as he had entered it. " Well !" exclaimed M. Belmont, closing the door and con- fronting Batoche in the hall. " Well !" replied the other quietly. " What do you say ?" " What do I say ? I say that this man will never speak a word of what has happened. So you may rest easy." " And what do you think of himself ?" " He is a great man." " And a good one," " A true Knight of St. Louis." " A friend of his countrymen." " Yes. I admire his generositv and magnanimity, and I ad- mire the wonderful instinct of Zulma Sarpy who gauged him so well that she wrung his liberation from me." When Pauline descended from her private apartments after a long day's rest, and was made acquainted with so much of the sailor's visit as concerned herself, she was deeply moved, ;i. 1' , \i,\A ,,,.-, ! '1 224 THE BASTONNAIS. and the more that she observed her father's intense gratifica tion. The whole episode imparted a happiness to that house such as it had not enjoyed for many days previous, and such as it was not destined to enjoy later. -T». ica use [ as PAULINE'S DEVELOPMENT, 225 IX PAULINES DEVELOPMENT. Insensibly a change was coming over Pauline. The sharp, varied experiences of the past month had a decisive schooling influence upon her. It is often the case that simple untutored natures like her develop more rapidly in days of crisis than characters fashioned of sterner material. There is no prelim- inary work of undoing to be gone through. The ground is "^ ready prepared for strong and lasting impressions. The pro- cess of creation is hampered by no obstacles. There is, on the contrary, a latent spontaneity which accelerates its action. Pauline herself was hardly conscious of this change. At least she could not formulate it in words, or even enumerate its phases by any system of analysis, but there were moments when her mind surged with feelings which she knew that she had never felt before, and she caught herself framing visions whose very vagueness of outline swelled before her like the shadows of a portent. At times, too, through these mists there flashed illuminations which startled her, and made her innocent heart shrink as if they were presentiments of doom. She had seen so much, she had heard so much, she had learned so much during these eventful weeks. The old peace- ful life was gone, and it seemed ever so far away. She was certain that it would never return again. Amid her trouble, there was even a tinge of pleasure in this assurance. That was, at least, one thing of which she was positive. All else was so doubtful, the future appeared so capricious, her fate and the fate of those she loved was shrouded in such mystery. On the evening of the day on which occurred the incidents I 1^ i' I'IJi m3 226 THE BASTONNAIS. related in the last chapter, she was sitting alone in her room. A circumstance which, of itself, should have excited in her emotions of pleasure, threw her into a train of painful rehear- sals. Her father was singing snatches of his old French songs in the room below — a thing he had not done for weeks. This reminded her of the visit of Bouchette, and from that point her mind travelled backwards to all the scenes, and their con- comitants, of which she had of late been the witness. There was the snow-storm in Cathedral Square, when her father was summoned to the presence of the Lieutenant-Governor ; there was the burning of Roderick's letter ; there was the dreadful altercation and the happy reconciliation between him and her father ; there was the firing on the handsome young Ameri- can from the walls ; there was the visit to the Sarpys ; there was the night ride back to the town ; there was the dazzling magnificence of the Governor's ball. And through all this she saw the weird form of Batoche, flitting in and out, silent, mys- terious, terrible. She saw the yearning, anxious, loving face of Roderick Hardinge. She saw Zulma leaning towards her, and, as it were, growing to her with a sister's fondness. The spell of Zulma's a Jection appeared to her like the embrace of a great spirit, overpowering, irresistible, and withal delicious in its strength. And in spite of her she saw — why should the vision be so vivid ? — the beautiful, sad eyes of Gary Singleton, as he sat beside her at the Sarpy mansion, or parted from her at the St. Louis Gate. She remembered how noble he looked as he conferred with Roderick under the walls, when bearing the flag of truce ; how proudly he walked back to the ranks of the army, nor even deigned to look back when a miscreant fired at him from the ramparts. She recalled every word that Zulma had spoken about him, so that she seemed to know him as well as Zulma herself When Pauline had gone over all these things several times, \j\ that extraordinary jumbling yet keenly distinct way with ( Pauline's development. 287 ;s. which such reminiscences will troop to the memory, she felt positively fatigued, and a sense of oppression lay like a bur- den at her heart. She closed her eyes while a shudder passed through her frame. She feared that she might be ill, and it required all the tranquil courage of her nature not to yield out- right to the collapse with which she was threatened. At length she bethought her of a means to regain her serenity. She would write a long letter to Zulma, describing the Governor's ball. She at once set about the task. But when the paper was spread out, she encountered a difficulty at the very threshold. Would she write about herself ? Would she speak of Roderick ? Would she repeat ti.e salutation of his Excellency ? Would she narrate her interview with Captain Bouchette ? If she did, she would relapse at once into the train of ideas of which it was the object of her letter to get rid. Already, two or three times, she had detected herself gliding into them, with pe* ^oised in her hand. " No," she murmured with a slight laugh. " I will do nothing of the kind. I will write like a milliner. I will give a detailed account of the dress worn by every lady in the chateau. This may amuse Zulma, or it may disgust her, according to her mood when she reads the letter. But no matter. It will answer my purpose. Zulma has often scolded me for not being selfish enough. I will be selfish for once." With this plan well defined, the writing of the letter was an easy and a pleasant task. As the pen flew over the paper, Pauline showed that she enjoyed her work. At times she would smile, and her whole face would light up. At other times she would stop and reread a passage with evident ap- probation. Page after page was covered with the mystic lan- guage of the modiste, in which Pauline must have been an adept — as what young woman is not ? — for she made HO erasures, and inserted no corrections. ■, 1 \ i \ i i ' s\ I I-: 228 THE BASTONNAIS. " Now that I have come to my own costume, shall I describe it ?" she asked herself, and almost immediately added : " It would be afifectation if I did not." She forthwith devoted a whole page to the description. Were we not right in saying that a great change had come over Pauline ? She, who only a few weeks ago, was the simplest and most unsophisticated of girls, now knew the meaning of that dreadful word — affectation. She not only knew what it was, but she knew that it must be avoided, and she took par- ticular pains to avoid it. A little later on she asked herself again : " Shall I make any mention of Roddy ?" The query was apparently not so easily answered as the other. She passed her left hand wearily over the smooth hair that shaded her temple. Her eyes were fixed vacantly on the green baize of the table. There was just the slightest trace of hardness, if that were possible, on her features. At length she whispered : "Zulma would think it strange if I did not. Besides, I know she admires Roddy. Yes, I must tell her about the Lieutenant — oh, beg pardon, the Captain," and she smiled in her natural way. " Of course she must hear ot his promotion. Poor Roddy ! How proud he was of it. And he seemed to cling to me closer afterwards, as if he meant that I should share half of the honour." After detailing that circumstance, she added a few words about Carleton and Bouchette, and wound up by expressing the regret, which was sincere with her, that Zulma had not been present at the festival. She wrote : " Captain Bouchette was kind enough to name some one whom you know as the belle of the ball. That was flattery, of course. But had some one whom 1 know been there, not only M. Bouchette, but the Governor himself and all the company, not excepting Roderick, would have acclaimed her queen." PAULINES DEVELOPMENT. 229 I This was not an idle compliment from one girl to another. It was a courtly tribute from woman to woman. Clearly, Pauline was making rapid progress. The letter was immediately folded and addressed. Holding it in her hand, as she rose from the table, Pauline felt wonder- fully refreshed. She glanced through the window, on her way down stairs, and a new horizon spread before her. Her mis- givings for the time had departed, her doubts were dispelled, and all that remained was a certain buoyant hopefulness, which she could not explain. She met her father below and inquired after Batoche. " He is not here, my dear, but may return to-night." " I have a letter for him." " A letter for Batoche ?" " That is, a letter which I would wish him to carry ?" " For whom ?" " For Zulma Sarpy." " Oh, that is very well. Write to Zulma. Cultivate her friendship. She is a grand girl." Batoche did call again at M. Belmont's that night, but it was only for a moment, as he was about to betake himself once more out of the town. He accepted Pauline's commission with alacrity. " I will deliver the letter myself," he said. " I am glad of the chance to see that magnificent creature again." t <' 'J ! i ' i ( 1^ I ; 230 THE BASTONNAIS. 11 X. ON THE CITADEL. The next day, instead of experiencing the usual reaction, Pauline continued in precisely the same state of mind as when she handed the letter to Batoche. She was not by any means gay. For instance, she could not have sung a comical song with zest. But she was more than merely calm. There was a quickening impulse of vague expectancy within her which led her to move about the house with a light step and a smiling face. Her father was much pleased, as he too had not out- lived the effect produced upon him by the visit of Bouchette. Furthermore, the weather may have contributed to the plea- santness that reigned in the house. The sun was shining brightly, the wind had fallen, and the snow lay crisp upon the Streets inviting to a promenade. Hardinge called about noon for the purpose of asking Pau- line to accompany him in a little walk. " I have a couple of hours before me — a thing I may not have every day — and a ramble will do both of us good," he said. Pauline was soon ready with the cordial consent of her father. After wandering through the streets for some time, and stopping to speak to friends whom they met, the two wended their way towards Cape Diamond. On the top of that portion of the citadel they were quite alone, and they could commune together without interruption. They both appeared to be pleased with this, each probably feeling that they had something to say to the other, or rather that they might touch upon topics, ON THE CITADEL. 231 untouched before, which might lead to better mutual under- standing. Roderick was a trifle graver and more reserved than his companion. Pauline made nothing of that, attributing it to his military anxieties, a supposition which his conversation at first seemed to justify. " This is an exposed point," said he, " which in a few days none of us will be able to occupy. When the whole rebel army moves up from Pointe-aux-Trembles, they can easily shell us out of this side of the citadel." " But it is a good point of observation, is it not «*" asked Pauline. " Capital, though not so good as that one higher up which is well guarded and where double sentries will always be posted." As he spoke, Roderick caught view of moving figures on the highw^ay near the Plains of Abraham. " Look Pauline," he said. " Do you know those fellows?" " I do not. Are they soldiers ? " "They call themselves Virginia riflemen. They are the advance guard of the rebel army. They have been prowling around for the past two days." " Virginia riflemen, Roddy ?" said Pauline looking up with an expression of languid inquiry in her dark eyes. " Yes. You ought to know something about them. Don't you remember the young officer who escorted you to the gates the day before yesterday?" " Oh," replied Pauline, with no attempt to conceal her surprise or interest, " you don't mean to say that he is down there among those poor unsheltered men ? " " I do, certainly, and I am sure he enjoys it. I would in his place. He has plenty of room to rove about in. It is not like being cooped up, as we are, within these narrow walls." " Well, he is strong and hearty and can stand a little hard- « ; ■ i 232 THE BASTONNAIS. ship. That's some comfort," said Pauline wagging her little head sympathetically. This evidently amused Roderick, who replied : " Yes, he is a stout, tough fellow." " And so brave," pursued Pauline with growing warmth while her eyes were fixed on the plain beyond. " Every j--' lier ought to be brave, Pauline. But I must allow chat this rnan is particularly brave. He has proved it before our eyes." Pauline answered not, but her attention remained fixed on the distant sight before her. Roderick burst out into a hearty laugh and l ".;a : " Surely t.iis ts ii* . ill you have got to say about him. He is strong, he is brave, and — isn't he something else, eh, Pauline?" She turned suddenly and ar .,rred Hardinge's laugh with a smile, but there was the tell-tale blood in her cheek. " Come now, dear, isn't he handsome ?" continued Roder- ick, proud of his triumph and full of mischief. " Well, yes, he is handsome," answered Pauline with a deli- cious pout and nock-show of aggressiveness. " And what else ? " " Modest." "What else?" " Refined." " What else ?" " Educated." " What else ?" " Kind." " Kind to you, dear ?" " Particularly kind to me." " Thank him for that. He could choose no worthier object of his kindness. Excuse my teasing you, Pauline. It was only a bit of fun. I quite agree in your estimate of this ON THE CITADEL. 233 (■: American officer. He and I ought to be friends, instead of enemies." " You will be friends yet," said Pauline with a tone of con- viction. "Alas!" ^' A pause ensued during which despondent thoughts flashed through the brain of Roderick Hardinge. All the horrors of war loomed up in a lump before him, and the terrible uncer- tainties of battle revealed themselves keenly. He had never felt his position so deeply before. This rebel was as good as himself, perhaps better. They might have met and enjoyed life together. Now their duty was to do each to death, or entail as much loss as possible upon one another. Losses ! What if one of these losses should be that of the lovely crea- ture at his side ? That were indeed the loss of all losses. But no, he would not entertain the thought. He tossed up his head and drank in the cold air with expanded lungs. He felt Pauline's small hand upon his arm. The touch thrilled his whole being. " Look, Roddy," she said pointing to the plain. : f , s \V Ml" Q W 5234 THE BASTONNAIS. XI. HORSEMAN AND AMAZON. What they both saw was this. A band of some twenty men, members of Morgan's corps, stood in groups on the ex- treme edge of the plain. At a given signal a horseman issued in a canter from their midst. The animal was almost pure white, with small, well-proportioned head, small clean hoofs, long haunches, abundant mane and sweeping tail. Every limb was instinct with speed, while the pricked ear, rolling eye and thin pink nostril denoted intelligence and fire. The rider was arrayed in the full uniform of a rifleman — grass-green coat and trousers, trimmed with black fur, through which ran a golden tape ; crimson sash with white powder horn attached ; a black turban-shaped hat of medium height, flanked over the left temple with a black aigrette of short dark feathers, v/bich was held by a circular clasp of bright yellow metal. The rider trotted around leisurely in a long eclipse until the snow was sufficiently beaten for his purpose. He then indulged in a variety of extraordinary feats, each of which seemed to be demanded of him by one or the other of his companions. Among these the following may be worth enumerating. He launched his horse at full speed, when suddenly loosening his feet from the stirrups and his hand from the bridle, he sprang upwards and threw himself with both legs now on the left, then on the right of the saddle. He leaned far forward on the horse's neck so that the two heads were exactly parallel, and next fell back into the saddle facing the crupper and holding on to nothing. He stopped his horse suddenly and made him stand almost perpendicular on his hind legs. Then, without HORSEMAN AND AMAZON. 235 tjie assistance of bridle, stirrup, or pommel, he secured his position and made the animal plunge wildly forward as if he were clearing a high hurdle, while he no more swerved from his seat than if he had been pinioned to it. Setting his horse again at his topmost bent, he took his pistol, threw it into the air, caught it on the fly, and finally hurled it with all his might in front of him. Then slipping one foot from the stirrup, he bent his body over to the ground, seized the weapon as he passed, recovered his position and replaced the pistol in its place, before reaching the end of his round. The friends of the rider were not more intent in their obser- vation than were the two spectators on the slope of the Citadel. " Marvellous horsemanship," exclaimed Hardinge with enthusiasm. " The animal must be an Arabian or some other thoroughbred. Whose can he be ? There is no such horse in these parts or I should have known it. And yet it is hardly possible that he should have come along with Arnold's expe- dition." "And the rider?" murmured Pauline, advancing several steps in the earnestness of her gaze. " Yes, the rider," continued Roderick. " See he lives in the horse and the horse in him. They seem to form part and parcel of one another. A magnificent fellow." " Impossible," said Pauline, shading her eyes with her hand to sharpen her vision. " It cannot be." "What?" queried Roderick. " I thought perhaps . . . " "But it is, Pauline." " You don't mean it ?" " It is no other." "Gary Singleton!" Forgetful of everything, in her transport, she applauded with her gloved hands. Roderick took off his cap and saluted. r. l\ I i i ? '; i I i 236 THE BASTONNAIS. " This is a brave sight, Pauline, and well worth our coming thus far to see." The girl was silent, and when at length she diverted her eyes, it was not to encounter those of her companion. A slight trouble arose within her which might have increased into an embarrassment, had not another incident almost immediately occurred to give distraction. The rider, having finished his gyrations, returned to his friends, who after a brief parley dispersed, leaving him alone with a small group of two or three, among whom appeared to be a lady on horseback. At least, so thought both Roderick and Pauline. They did not mind the circumstance, however, and were on the point of retracing their steps homeward, when they noticed that two riders detached themselves from the rest and took the direction of the plain. It was easy to recognize Gary Singteton, and, in a few moments, as easy to see that he was accompanied by a lady. The twain went along at a gentle walk directly towards the St. Lawrence. The sun was still shining brightly, and as they rode, they were sometimes in light and sometimes in shadow, according as they passed the leafless maples that skirted the path. When they reached the high bank overlooking the river, they stopped for a few moments in conversation. Singleton evidently describing some- thing, as indicated by the movement of his arm along the line of the stream and again in the direction of the town. While they were thus engaged, the couple on the Citadel watched them closely without uttering a word. The reader will readily guess that Pauline watched the man, and Roderick the woman. Of the two, the latter was far more intent in his observation, the former looking on in rather a dreamy way. At length, the officer and the amazon turned their horses' heads on their backward journey. As they did so, they both happened to look directly toward the town. Whatever it was that drew their attention, it v.as sufficiently interesting to cause HORSEMAN AND AMAZON. 237 them to stop and confer together. Then the lady made a sudden movement as if to advance straight forward, but she was restrained by her attendant, who pointing to the guns on the ramparts, made her understand that she must keep out of range. It was at this point that Hardinge abruptly broke silence. " I thought so," was his brief remark, uttered almost sternly between his teeth. Pauline did not appear to hear him. " I knew I was not mistaken," he continued a little louder. Pauline caught the word and looked up in wonder. " I have a right to remember her." " What do you mean, Roddy?" " It is the very same riding habit ?" Pauline was now perfectly astonished. Hardinge's face was aglow. " I would know that form in a thousand." "What form?" " And that carriage." " Roddy, you don't intend to say ?" " I tell you it is Zulma Sarpy." " You are jesting." " Look, she is waving her handkerchief" And so she was. She twisted and brandished it, and, in doing so, agitated her horse to that extent that he fell back on his haunches and pawed with his front feet. Roderick took off his cap and remained uncovered a moment. Pauline shouted for joy and fluttered her handkerchief in return. Singleton doffed his plumed hat, bowing low over his holsters. It was a moment of exquisite excitement. But only a moment. Swift as the wind the riders dashed away over the plain. Turning suddenly, Hardinge recognized the danger of his position. " Let us go, Pauline," he said, " we may be seen by our men and it would be very awkward." \ : ! 1 , I ' IM I 238 THE BASTONNAIS. They hurried down the slope of the Citadel and entered into the town without almost exchanging a word. Pauline was radiant. Roderick was somewhat sullen. Gradually, however, they both resumed their composure and sauntered for anothe half-hour together very agreeably, but talking of quite in different subjects. " That spectacle was more than we had bargained for," said Pauline, taking off her gloves and laying her furs on the little central table of her chamber. " I certainly never expected to see him again. That graceful salutation of his was intended for me, no doubt. And I recognized him at once, while Roddy did not. On the other hand, he recognized Zulma, and I did not. Wasn't that strange?" Pauline paused in her disrobing and thought over this. And the more she thought over it, the more it appeared strange It appeared so strange that her features assumed a look sadness and anxiety. " What could Zulma be doing away from home to-day ?" thought Pauline further. " How was it that she met the officer ? What if she came purposely to see him ? That would be just like Zulma. She is a fearless girl. She cares for nobody. She can do what no other young woman could attempt, without exciting criticism, or if there is" criticism it falls harmless at her feet. For the first time in all these days, Pauline experienced something akin to an envy of her brilliant friend. That is, she envied her spirit of independence. She, of the drooping eyes and shrinking heart, felt that she too would like to dare just a little, as Zulma did. Another proof of the transformation which was being effected in her. But in this particular, it was impossible for her to go beyond velleities. Much as she might change, Pauline Belmont could never be Zulma Sarpy, and if the dear child only knew it, it was not desirable that she should be. She had her own claims to admiration and love. Zulma HORSEMAN AND AMAZON. 239 had licrs. These were almost radirnlly dilTcrcnt, but precisely theii'contrast enhanced the value of each. ** I wonder if Zulma received my letter," added Pauline after finishing her toilet. " It is possible that Batoche may have met her and delivered it. I hope he did. In that case she must have been particularly glad to see us and salute Roddy after his promotion. I am convinced of one thing. Much as Zulma admires Gary Singleton, she thinks a great deal of Roderick Hardinge. And I am equally sure that Roddy thinks a great deal of Zulma." And Pauline, sitting before her fire, crooned the old songs of youth, while her mind wandered away and away, till the shadows of evening lay deep on her window squares. r i ! :■• m 1 i I 240 THE BASTONNAIS. XII. WAS IT DESIGN OR ACCIDENT. Batoche delivered Pauline's letter to Zulma earlier than he expected. He had intended to go out to the Sarpy mansion on purpose to do so, but to his surjirise and pleasure, he encount- ered her that very day in the environs of Quebec. She was on horseback, accompanied by a servant. As soon as she spied the old s 'dier, she rode up to him and greeted him in the warmest language. A few words of conversation sufficed to reveal the intention of her journey. She had taken advantage of the splendid weather for a jaunt across the country and had chosen the direction of Quebec in order to learn what was going on between the contending armies. Batoche con- fined himself to a few words about her friends within the town and excused himself from saying more by producing the letter of Pauline. Zulma seized it eagerly, broke the seal and ran her eye over the numerous sheets. She said nothing, but the expression of her countenance was that of intense amusement, except towards the end of the reading when it changed to a look of cu\ious gravity. " I shall read it more leisurely when I get home," she said to Batoche, folding the missive and secreting it in her bosom, " aad Pauline will be sure to receive a long answer. For the present, please give her my thanks and tell her that the things that she writes me are full of interest. It is very kind of her thus to think of me. Tell her that she is ever present to my mind. I am in no danger, but she is. I can roam about at my pleasure, while she is restrained within the walls. Tell her that I am prepared to do anything I can for her. Whatever WAS IT DESIGN OR ACCIDENT. 24t she needs she will have from me, and you will be our messen- ger, will you not, Batoche ?" The old man signified his ready assent. '•If there is a necessity for it, I will go to Pauline even through the barricades and barriers. Wherever you lead, Batoche, I will follow. Tell her this, and now, adieu." " Adieu ?" said Batoche inquiringly. " Yes, I will return home. I have had an agreeable ride. I might perhaps have advanced a little farther, but now that I have met you, and received this precious letter, I am satisfied." " It is not yet late in the forenoon," replied Batoche. " Mademoiselle might tarry somewhat longer. I think she might render her journey still more agreeable." Through these simple words, Zulma was not slow to discern the meaning of her old friend. Her cheek reddened and her eye got animated, spite of the exertions she made to hide her • emotions. " Some of your old tricks of divination again," she said.' laughing. '* Pray, why should I tarry longer ?" Batoche met her ardent glance with a flash of intelligence.. Pointing to a little clump of wood, about a quarter of a mile to the right, he said : " I gave him your note, mademoiselle. He was deeply moved. He declared he would treasure it all his life. Per- haps he has answered you already." Zulma shook her head slowly, but made no interruption. " He is there, mademoiselle, with his command. Perhaps in a few days, he may be ordered furthg- forward. If he knew that you were so near him and did not see you, I am certain that he would be deeply distressed. If he knew that you were here, he would ride out at once to meet you." Zulma still maintained silence, but she could not conceal the agitation which these words produced within her. " Mademoiselle," continued Batoche, " will you advance 242 THE BASTONNAIS. with me a little, or shall I go on and tell him that you are here?" " I put myself in your hands," said Zulma in a low voice, bending over to the old soldier. Batoche darted a last glance at her, which appeared to de- cide him. He set forth at once in the direction of the camp, and before ten minutes had elapsed, Gary Singleton was riding in hot haste to meet Zulma. He persuaded her to remain a few hours in the camp in the company of his fellow officers and it was in her honour that he performed the tournament which we have described in the preceding chapter. And it was thus that they both unexpectedly were seen by Pauline and Har- dinge. THE INTENDANTS PALACE. 243 XIII. THE INTENDANT's PALACE. On the 5th December the whole American army marched up to Quebec. Montgomery, who had come down from Mon- treal with his victorious army, joined Arnold at Pointe-aux- Trembles and took command of the expedition. Flushed with the success which had laid all Canada at his feet, in a campaign of barely three months, the youthful hero advanced against the last rampart of British power with the determina- tion to carry it or die. His troops shared his enthusiasm. The despondency of the preceding fortnight had melted away and was replaced by an ardour that was proof against the rigours of the season and the undisguised difficulties of the gigantic task which confronted them. They knew that the eyes of all their countrymen were upon them. The Congress at Phila- delphia paused in its work of legislation to listen to the news from Canada. Washington was almost forgotten in the anxiety about Montgomery. New England stood expectant of won- ders from the gallantry of Arnold. In far-off Maryland and Virginia, the mothers, wives and daughters on the plantations had no thoughts but of the postboy who galloped down the lane with letters from the North, where their loved ones were serving under the chivalrous Morgan. It was generally felt then, as it is now well understood in the light of history, that on the fate of Quebec depended, in great measure, the fate of the continental revolution. If that stronghold were captured, the Americans would be rid of every enemy from the North; the French-Canadians and the Indians, friendly to France, would be encouraged to join the cause of independence ; while ( f !;ui: 244 THE BASTONNAIS. the moral effect in Europe, where Wolfe's immortal achievement was still fresh in all minds, would doubtless hasten the boon of inter^er tion. Montgomery, who was altogether a superior man, was keen- ly alive to all these considerations, hence when he moved up from Pointe-aux-Trembles he carried with him the full weight of this enormous responsibility. How far he was equal to it these humble pages will briefly tell for the hundredth time, and the writer is proud that he is allowed the opportunity to tell it. Montgomery took up his headquarters at Holland House, and Arnold occupied Langlois House, near Scott's Bridge. Around these two points revolved the fortunes of the Con- tinental army during this momentous month of December prior to the attack on Quebec. It was in the latter building, on the morning after the ar- rival of the army, that Morgan, who, as we have stated, had preceded the main body by five days, and occupied the prin- cipal roads leading to the beleaguered town, received from Arnold the command to occupy the suburb of St. Roch, near the Intendant's Palace. This historical pile was perhaps the most magnificent monument in the Province. It was built as early as 1684, by orders of the French King, under the ad- ministration of Intendant De Meulles. In 1712, it was con- sumed by fire, when occupied by Intendant Begon, but was reconstructed by orders from Versailles. During the last eleven years of French domination, from 1748 to 1759, it be- came famous through the orgies and bacchanalian scandals of Intendant Bigot, the Sardanapalus of New France, whose ex- ploits of gallantry and conviviality would have formed a fitting theme for romance from the pen of the elder Dumas. After the Conquest, the British had almost entirely neglected it, as they held their official offices entirely with the town. At the time of the siege, therefore, the edifice was in a deserted and THE INTENDANT's PALACE. 245 evement boon of ^as keen- oved up I weight aal to it ;ime, and r to tell . House, ; Bridge, the Con- December I9, it be- somewhat dilapidated condition, but its large dimensions afforded shelter to a considerable number of Americans, and its advantageous locality suggested to Montgomery the idea of making it the headquarters of his sharpshooters. Morgan was ordered in consequence to place there a picked detachment ot riflemen. This he put under the command of Singleton, who moved thither a couple of days after his interview with Zulma. From the high cupola of the Intendant's Palace, he kept up a regular fire on the exposed points of the garrison. The sentries along the walls were picked off, one after another ; whenever a reconnoitring party appeared above the stockades, they were at once driven under cover, and even the workers of the barbette guns were often frightened away from their pieces. Whenever, as frequently happened, a few mortars were pointed on the town from the environs of the Palace, the sharp fusil- lade which accompanied them from the embrasures of the cupola, produced the liveliest commotion within the walls, causing the alarm bells to sound and sending battalion upon battalion of militia to the rescue. The Americans were very much encouraged by this sign of success, imagining that they had discovered a strong strategic point. The British were pro- portionately vexed, and Carleton determined on getting rid of the annoyance. For that purpose he brought a battery of nine pounders to bear upon the building. When Gary Singleton saw it mounted, he smelt mischief. " We will be knocked off our pins, boys," he said, " but before we drop let every man of you bring down his man." The contest was keen and animated. The riflemen of Vir ginia poured volley after volley against the artillerists, while the latter hurled their solid balls against the massive masonry. At first they fired low, battering in doors, splintering wood-work, unhinging shutters, and ploughing the floors. The old wa'is of the town were shrouded in clouds of white smoke. The Palace appeared like a ring of fire from the red barrels of the ? 1 246 THE BASTONNAIS. 1 ! i I riflemen. At length, one of the British mihtia officers stepped forward and pointed a nine-pounder direct on the cupola. Gary spied the movement and exclaimed : " This is our last chance. Fire !" Loud and clear boomed the roar of that fatal cannon shot amid the rattle of musketry. There was a crash, a shivering of timbers, and then a heavy fall. When the smoke cleared away, the Intendant's Palace was a heap of ruins. The cupola had entirely disappeared. Wounded men crept out of the debris as well as they could, some limping, some holding a broken arm, others bandaging their damaged scalps, but all trailing their muskets. Gary Singleton was borne away by two of his men badly hurt in both legs. The British officer who had aimed the victorious shot stood towering on the walls sur- veying his achievement. It was Roderick Hardinge. " Well done, Gaptain," said Caldwell, commander of the militia regiment to which Roderick belonged, and who had entrusted his young friend with the destruction of the Palace. " That is a good work. I have watched it from the bastion yonder and come to congratulate you. I shall recommend you for imm.ediate promotion." And so he did. Before that day had ended Roderick Hardinge was breveted a Major. He was overjoyed, and after receiving the congratulations of his friends, he hurried off to tell Pauline of his good fortune. Her father was out of the house and she was quite alone. When she opened the door to Hardinge, her eyes were red with weeping, and she held a bit of written paper in her hand. There is no need to describe the meeting. Suffice it to say that the note had informed her of Gary Singleton's fall. LITTLE BLANCHE, 247 XIV. LITTLE BLANCHE. ZuLMA had not forgotten her promise to Batoche concerning little Blanche. The last time she had met the old man, the subject was mooted and the answer she received was that pos- sibly within a few days he would have occasion to demand her good services in favour of his granddaughter. An unforeseen circumstance hastened their meeting. Sieur Sarpy having learned that an intimate friend of his, living at the village of Charlesbourg, was very ill and particularly desired to see him, proposed to Zulma that she should accompany him on the visit. There was no risk attending the journey, as although Charlesbourg lay not very far from Quebec, to the north-east and in the environs of Montmorenci, it was out of the beat of the besieging forces, and could be reached by a circuitous route free from all interruptions. The promise of immunity had no effect upon Zulma, who knew that she had nothing whatever to fear, but she accepted the offer eagerly through the motive of being near her aged father, and because the excite ment of travel was a positive relief in her then state of mind. The journey was accomplished successfully and without inci- dent. The weather was favourable and the winter roads excel- lent. Sieur Sarpy finding his friend very ill indeed, decided upon remaining two or three days at his bedside. The first day Zulma kept him company, but the second, having learned upon inquiry that Batoche's cabin was not a great distance away, she felt an irresistible desire to drive over and visit little Blanche. Her father did not think it worth his while to inter- pose any objections, although he really did not fancy the pro- .■ i ,5 . ] : ■ 248 THE BASTONNAIS. ■i.i| ject. Strange to say, his sick friend favoured it. Smiling languidly, he said in a whisper : — " Let your daughter go. She may be able to do some good. Batoche is a wonderful man. We all like him, however little we can make him out. I am told that his granddaughter is a very singular child. Let Zulma go." She went accompanied only by her own servant. She would accept no other escort. When she debouched from the Charlesbourg road into the broad highway leading from Que- bec through Beauport to Montmorenci and onwards, she heard the sullen roar of cannon and the muffled roll of musketry in front of the town. She stopped a moment to listen, remarking to her companion that the firing was brisker than usual. But she was not further impressed, and soon drove on. The di- rections she had received were so precise that no difficulty was experienced in finding the route to the cabin. The little path leading to it from the main road was unbeaten either by trace •of cariole or web of snow-shoe, but her horse broke through it ■easily enough, and pulled up in front of the hut almost before ■it was seen. It was nearly indistinguishable, being white as the element by which it was surrounded, and silent as the soli- tude amid which it stood. The faintest thread of white smoke rose from the chimney. Not a sound in the environs could be heard save the dull moan of the water-fall. Zulma stepped lightly out of the sleigh, tripped up to the door and rapped gently. No answer. She rapped a little louder. Still no an- swer. She applied her ear to the small aperture of the latch. Not a breath was audible. Getting just a little excited, not through fear, but through the mystery of adventure, she drew off her glove and knocked vigorously. The door opened wide and noiselessly on its hinges, and across it stood a mite of a girl, dressed in white woollen. For a moment Zulma did not stir. She could not. The strangeness of that child's face, its weird beauty, the singular light in the wide-open eyes arrested LITTLE BLANCHE. 249 her footsteps and almost the beating of her heart. And near the child was a huge black cat, with stiff tail, bristling fur and glaring green eye, not hostile exactly, but sharply observant and expectant. " Blanche," said Zulma at length in a voice whose musical softness was as that of a mother's appeal. '''■Bon jour ^ Blanche, You do not know me. My name is Zulma Sarpy." There was no fear in the child's face from the first. Now all doubt and hesitation disappeared from it. She did not smile, but a beautiful serenity spread over it. She joined her two little thin hands together, open palm to palm, and instead of approaching, retreated a step or two as if to make way for her visitor. Zulma entered and closed the door. " I have come to f.oe you, Blanche. Your grandfather has spoken to me of you, and I want to do something for you." The child answered brightly that her grandfather had indeed mentioned mademoiselle Sarpy's name and told her how good she had been to him and how she had promised to be her friend. Both Zulma and Blanche being now perfectly at ease, our old acquaintance Velours testified her satisfaction at this issue of affairs by curving her long back and rubbing herself against the hem of Zulma's cloak. Blanche gave her visitor a seat, helped her to take off her furs, and soon the two were en- gaged in earnest discourse. Zulma looked around the room and moved about to examine the many articles of its quaint furniture. This afforded her the opportunity of asking many questions, to all of which Blanche returned the most intelligent answers. Indeed, the child gave proofs of very remarkable in telligence. There was patent in her a wisdom far beyond her years. It was something different from the usual precocity, because the range of her information was limited enough, and there was sufficient simplicity in her discourse to eliminate that feeling of anxiety and pain which we always experience in the presence of abnormally developed children. Zulma made her R . I f. ' 1 4 Im ^t!^ 250 THE BASTONNAIS. 1 tell all about her grandfather, and thus learned curious details concerning a character which she intensely admired, notwith- standing the mystery which was set like a seal upon it — a mystery which Blanche's unconscious revelations rendered only deeper and more provokingly interesting. She spoke to the child, too, of her godmother, Pauline, and it was a delight to learn from those truthful lips how much more loveable her dear friend was than she had ever suspected. Zulma felt that her visit was more than repaid by the insight she thus gained into the characters of Pauline and Batoche. Then she broached higher things. She spoke of God and religion. The untutored child of the forest rose with the oc- casion. There was nothing conventional in her mind or words on these topics — as how could there be under the wayward teaching of Batoche ? But her intuitions were crystal clear. There were no breaks, no obscurations in her spiritual vision. It was evident that she had studied and communed direct with nature, and that her soul had grown in literal contact with the winds and the flowers, the trees and the water courses, and the pure untrammelled elements of- God. She knelt before the lap of Zulma and recited all the prayers she knew — the formulas which the priest and Pauline had taught her, and the ejaculations which she had taught herself to say, in the bright morning, in the dark evening, in the silent days of peace, in the crash of the tempest, or when her little heart ached from whatever cause as she passed from infancy to adolescence. The contrast between the styles of these prayers impressed Zulma very strongly. The former were such as she herself knew, complete, appropriate and pathetic in their very phraseology. The latter were fragmentary, rude, and some- times incongruous in syntax, but they spoke the poetry of the heart, and their yearning fervour and indubiety made Zulma un- derstand, as she listened to them through her tears, how it is that wayside statues of stone, and wooden figures of the Ma- LITTLE BLANCHE. 251 I! details otwith- i it— a ed only to the ight to ale her elt that gained tod and the oc- ar words wayward al clear. ,1 vision, id direct tact with rses, and ,e prayers line had it herself he silent ,er little Infancy to le prayers ;h as she leir very id some- ■y of the ;ulma un- low it is the Ma- donna in lofty niches, are said to hear and answer by visible tokens the prayers of the illiterate, the unfortunate, and the poor. "Are you not lonely here my dear?" asked Zulma raising the child from her knees and stroking back her hair as she stood leaning against her arm. " I am used to be alone, mademoiselle," was the reply. " I have never had any company but my grandfather, who is often absent. He seeks food for both of us. He kills birds and animals in the woods. He catches fish in the river. Nobody ever came to see us except of late when my grandfather has been called away by strange men and has remained absent longer than usual. When he is here he speaks to me, he tells me stories, he teaches me to understand the pictures in some of his old books, he plays the violin for me. When he is gone I take more time to do my work, washing clothes, cleaning the dishes, sweeping the room, mending my dresses. When this is done, if the weather is fine, I gather flowers and fruits, I sit at the Falls making wreaths for our pictures and my grand- father's crucifix. If it is dark or stormy outside, I sing canti- cles, repeat my catechism, and when I am tired I play with Velours, She never leaves me." Blanche did not say all these things consecutively, but in reply to repeated questions from Zulma, who led her on step by step. And not the answers themselves, but the manner in which they were made, the tone of voice, the expression of the eye and the ready gesture, all increased her interest in this strange charming little being. " But of late," she said, " your grandfather has been away several nights together. Were you left all alone?" " Yes, all alone, mademoiselle." " And you were not afraid ? " Blanche smiled and there was a vacant look in her eye which reminded Zulma of Batoche. M I I ' t lilil I THE BASTOKNAtS. " The night is the same as the day," she said. " Oh, not the same, my darling. At night wicked things go abroad. The wild beasts prowl, bad men frighten the inno- cent, and the darkness prevents help from coming so easily as in the day. Blanche listened attentively. What she heard was evidently something new, but it did not disconcert her. She explained to Zulma that when the hour for rest came, she said all her prayers, put on the night-dress which Pauline had given her — this was always white, in all seasons — covered the fire in winter, closed the door in summer, but never locked it, and then went to sleep. ' " When my grandfather is in his alcove, I hardly ever awaken, but if he is absent I always awaken at midnight. Then I sit up and listen. Sometimes I hear the owl's cry or the bark of the wolf. At other times, I hear the great noise of the tempest Sometimes again there is not a sound outside, except that of the waterfall. While I am awake I see at the foot of my bed the image of my mother. She smiles on me and blesses me. Then I lie down and sleep till morning." The above is a cold rehearsal of the words which the child uttered. There was a pathos in them beyond all words that caused Zulma to shed copious tears. " Dear little thing," she exclaimed, clasping her to her bosom. " You shall be no longer alone. I will take care of you. You will come with me this very evening. Will vonr grandfather return to-night ?" " When he does not return, he tells me before ' he returns, he says nothing. He said nothing mom therefore he will return to-night." In the earnestness of her interview, Zulma had not n iced the flight of the hours. When she looked up at the clock it was past five and the darkness was gathering. Turning to the servant who, after attending to his horse, had entered the room ti £3> LITTLE BLANCHE. 253 and taken a seat in a comer, she ordered him to go out upon the main road and see whether any one was coming. He came back with the information that several men were going rapidly in the direction of Quebec, appearing very much excited, but that none seemed to be coming from the town. " It may be late Blanch j," said Zulma, " before your grand- father returns, but 1 will wait another hour. Then we shall decide what to do." At six o'clock it was very dark and a slight snowstorm arose. Zulma was getting anxious. She could not make up her mind to leave the child all alone, and could not take her along without first seeing Batoche. On the other hand, she must return to Charlesbourg to avoid any needless anxiety on the part of her father. She was in the height of her perplexity when she heard the shuffling of feet at the door. " It is he," exclaimed Blanche, springing to the latch. i • f 264 THE BASTONNAIS. XV. IN batoche's cabin. i IH n Batoche entered, supporting Gary Singleton under the arms. The latter could stand upon his feet, but it was with effort, and he needed the assistance of his companion. Zulma was thunderstruck on seeing the wounded officer. He was no less astonished at seeing her. Batoche smiled as he glanced over the room. But not a syllable was uttered, until Gary had found a resting place in the easy chair before the fire. Then a fev/ hasty words explained the whole situation. Zulma burst into tears and lamentations, as she took a seat at Gary's side, but he soon comforted her by the assurance that he was not dangerously hurt, " The doctor told me there was nothing broken. All I need is a few days of rest. Batoche was at my side when I fell. He took care of me and prevailed upon me to come out here with him." Batoche smiled again while Gary spoke, then said in his turn : — " The Captain would have preferred to go elsewhere to rest, and he consented to come with me only when I assured him that you were away from home." "How did you knovv that?" asked Zulma. " Oh, I knew it." "You know everything, Batoche." " I did not know that we should meet you in my humble cabin, but I thought it was not impossible. When I saw your cariole at the door, I was not at all surprised, but I did not tell the Gaptain of it." IN BATOCHES CABIN. 265 " I was never more surprised and delighted in my life," said Gary. Zulma was comforted. She totally regained her equanimity, and conversed calmly with Gary. After a time, when little Blanche began to set the table, she rose to assist and cooked the frugal meal with her own hands. Later, she helped Batoche to prepare the liniments for the young officer's bruises. Batoche was as expert as any medicine-man among the Indians, from whom indeed he had learned the virtues of the various seeds and herbs which hung in bunches from the rafters of his hut. A couple of hours thus passed away almost unnoticed. As eight o'clock struck, Zulma arose from her seat and announced her intention of remaining with her friend till the next day, when the nature of his wounds would be better known. Gary remonstrated gently, renewing the assurance that within a very few days he would be in perfect possession of his limbs. On the other hand, Batoche encouraged Zulma in her resolution. He declared he would regard it as a great favor if she would accept the scant hospitality of his hut for one night. Little Blanche said nothing, but she clung to the skirt of Zulma and there was an appeal in her eye which the latter could not have resisted even if she had been so minded. In her usual de- cided way, she ordered the servant to drive back to Gharles- bourg, inform her father why she had remained behind, and return to learn her wishes the next morning. " If I thought," said Batoche, " that Sieur Saq)y would bt too anxious, I would go with your servant, and explain every- thing." " There is no need," replied Zulma. My father is con- vinced that I would do nothing to pain him, and I know that his high regard for Gaptain Singleton, and his confidence in yourself, Batoche, will make him completely approve the course which I take. The chief point is that my servant 256 THE BASTONNAIS. ;ii! should return at once in order that my father may have no fear that I have encountered an accident on the road." And without further delay, the servant took his departure. Quietude then reigned in the cabin. Little Blanche recited her prayers to Zulma, and was put to bed by her, when she went to sleep directly. Her strange manners and remarkable discourse had been a source of great interest to Gary. Batoche retired to his alcove, whence he did not issue for a long time. In the interval, Zulma and the disabled officer, seated before the fire, indulged in a low-voiced conversation. Gary thanked his wounds for this unexpected opportunity of pleasant repose. Going over all the circumstances, he regarded this meeting with Zulma as something providential. He had almost a sus- picion that Batoche had had a secret hand in bringing it about, so impressed had he become with the wonderful resources of that singular man. Zulma was actually calm, but her heart was full ot gratitude and there was a fervour in her language which showed that her sensitive nature was in harmony with the time and place in which she found herself. Never had Gary seen her more beautiful. The humbleness and poverty of her surroundings brought out into relief the wealth and lordliness of her charms. She sat like an empress in her wicker chair. The predominant thought with Gary, as he glanced at her admiringly, was this — that it was an episode to be remembered through life, an episode which he could not have expected in his wildest dreams, and which would never recur again, to sit thus, a thousand miles away from home, in a lonely hut, in the snow-piled forests of Ganada, with one of the loveliest and grandest women of God's planet. Over and over again, as he took in quietly the significance of this fact, he closed his eyes and delivered his soul to full and uninter- rupted fruition. There are brief hours of enjoyment — few and far between — which are full compensation for years of dull, commonplace existence, or even of positive suffering. IN batoche's cabin. 257 ; no fear irture. s recited hen she narkable Batoche )ng time, d before thanked It repose, meeting ost a sus- inging it • vonderful calm, but Dur in her was in d herself, imbleness relief the 1 empress Gary, as 1 episode could not ild never home, in th one of Over and this fact, 1 uninter- lent— few years of suffering. Gary was very happy, and ho might have sat there, before the fire, the livelong night, without ever thinking of his own or his companion's fatigue. Zulma, while no less absorbed in her own delight, was more considerate. When ten o'clock was reached, she called Batoche from his retreat, and proposed to him the arrangements for the night. After these were settled, she told her old friend that she had a favor to ask him. She wished him to play the violin. He hesitated a moment, then with a quaint smile fetched the instrument from the little room. Taking his stand in the centre of the hut, he opened with a few simple airs which only drew a smile from the lips of his listeners, but all at once, changing his mood, he plunged into a whirlpool of wild melody, now torturing then coaxing his violin, till he seemed transported beside himself, and both Zulma and Gary fancied themselves in the presence of a possessed spirit. They exchanged glances of wonder and almost of apprehension. Neither of them was at all prepared for this exhibition of wondrous mechanical skill, and pre- ternatural expression, Batoche closed as abruptly as he had begun. After a final sweep over the strings that sounded like a shriek, he ;held his bow extended in his hand for a moment, while his contracted features and fixed eye assumed an expres- sion of listening. " There is trouble in the air," he said quietly, as he walked back to the alcove to lay by his fiddle. " The day which has been so eventful shall be followed by a night of distress. We have been happy. Our friends are not so happy." ' I 258 THE BASTONNAIS. |i XVI. A PAINFUL MEETING. Deep silence followed these words. It was broken, after an interval of about ten minutes, by a great commotion outside and the rushing of Batoche to the door. Gary and Zulma re- mained in their seats awaiting an explanation which was soon forthcoming. Batoche entered supporting on his arm the drooping form of Pauline. M. Belmont followed, the picture of anger and despair. When Zulma saw her friend, she utter- ed an exclamation of pain and sprang forward to meet her. Pauline having shot a burning glance at her and at the figure sitting beside her, placed her hand upon her heart, and fell backwards in a swoon. Gary, forgetting his wounds, hobbled to her assistance. The whole household was bustling around the beautiful victim, as she lay unconscious in Batoche's easy chair. But the attack was only transient. Pauline soon re- covered consciousness and strength under the action of re- storatives, and the company was enabled to understand what combination of strange circumstances had thus brought them so unexpectedly together. M. Belmont drew Batoche into the alcove, where they had a long and loud conversation, the sub- stance of which was that both the friends were in imminent danger, the one of his life, the other of his liberty. M. Bel- mont had been warned that da , through the friendly offices of Gaptain Bouchette, that he must not receive Batoche into his house any further. Batoche had lately been tracked in his nocturnal excursions to and from the town, the authorities had been made aware of his doings, and strict orders had been jssued for his capture dead or alive. The man who was on A PAINFUL MEETING. 269 1:1 his heels was Donald, the servant of Roderick Hardinge, who had apprised his master of the facts. Roderick, through deli- cacy, had not ventured to mention the matter to M. Belmont, but had commissioned their mutual friend, Bouchette, to do so. The Belmont house was hereafter to be closely watched, and if Batoche or any of his companions were found there, not only would they be seized, but M. Belmont himself would be arrested and tried by court martial. This threat was bad enough, but there was worse. M. Belmont had that day re- ceived an anonymous letter in which he was told that a sen- tence of banishment from the town was hanging over his head. Colonel McLean, commander of the regulars, and the highest officer in the garrison after Governor Carleton, had included his name in this punishment along with several others. He had powerful friends in Lieutenant-Governor Cramahe, Captain Bouchette, and Roderick Hardinge, but the force of circum- stances might render their interposition unavailable. M. Bel- mont did not know how much truth there was in all this. But, according as the siege progressed, spirits within the town were getting terribly excited, and he really could not tell what might happen. At all events, the letter had completely roused him, and he had decided, at whatever risk, upon coming to consult Batoche. He had intended to come alone, but his daughter, Pauline, guessing his intention, would not be left behind. She declared she would follow her father through every contingency. They had both contrived to escape from the town by the hap- piest combination of circumstances. Now that he was out of the town, he would go further than he had at first intended. He would ask Batoche's opinion about staying away from it alto- gether, thus forestalling banishment. In the casket which his friend had hidden for him, there were sufficient valuables in coin to answer his purposes, and fully cover all his expenses for months to come. Hitherto he had struggled hard against his fate and his feelings for the sake of his daughter. Now that. ..M If- hill mm 260 THE BASTONNAIS. ijiii, if II I he was forced to act, he would resume his liberty, and he hoped Pauline would become reconciled to the change. He was not too old, and he had sufficient bodily strength to carry his prin- ciples into practice if need be. M. Belmont poured out his story with rapid animation, being never once interrupted by Batoche. When he had concluded, he grew calmer and was in a proper state of mind to receive the advice of his friend. Batoche's words were few and deliberate. As for himself, M. Belmont need not fear any further trouble from his goings and comings in the town. He had no dread of the wolves, only hate. He laughed at their threats. There was not an Englishman of them all cunning enough to entrap him. He would continue his visits as he pleased, but he would never come near M. Belmont's residence. As to M. Belmonfs per- sonal case, he would simply advise him to maintain his ground, and not compromise himself by flight. He knew that his friend was no coward, but flight was a cowardly act. Then, there was Pauline to consider — an all-powerful argument. All his life had been consecrated to her — let it be consecrated to the end. He had made many sacrifices in her behalf — he should not recoil before this greatest sacrifice. The dear child might acquiesce, but it would cause her many a secret tear, and such as she were too good to be made unhappy. Besides, M. Belmont should think of his compatriots. He was their fore- most man. If he fled, they would all be put under the ban. If he deserted them, what would many of them do in the supreme hour of trial that was coming ? M. Belmont listened attentively, almost religiously to the words of the man whom he had of late so much learned to ad- mire, and whose wisdom was never more apparent than on the present occasion. He thanked Batoche warmly, but failed to say that he would follow his advice. Instead of that, he took him by the hand and drew him into the apartment where the| young people were seated. A PAINFUL MEETING. 261 id he hoped He was not rry his prin- lation, being i concluded, i to receive for himself, ,m his goings f the wolves, I was not an rap him. He . would never Belmonfs per- ;ain his ground, [knew that his ly act. Then, argument. All consecrated to her behalf— he The dear child secret tear, and Besides, M. was their fore- under the ban. Lhem do in the Lligiously to the Ih learned to ad- Irent than on the lly, but failed to I of that, he took Itment where the They too had had an absorbing conversation. It was the sight of Gary which had so suddenly unbalanced Pauline when she first entered the cabin. From a hasty note which Batoche had smuggled into the town, she had learned of his misfortune at the Intendant's Palace. She had been feverishly anxious to hear more about his fate. This was one of the causes why she decided upon accompanying her father in his perilous journey that night. She knew she would meet Batoche and gather full particulars from him. But she had no suspicion that she would see Gary himself. And the presence of Zulma was another mystery. But after she recovered consciousness, as we have seen, and, seated between them, had heard the explanation of everything, not only did her spirits revive, but she forgot all the other sorrows which waited upon her. Gary, too, com- pletely overlooked his own ailments in the joy of her presence. And Zulma, without misgiving, without afterthought, was per- haps the happiest of the three, because she partook of the pleasure which her two friends experienced in each other's so- ciety. Thus a full hour of unalloyed enjoyment passed away, after which the conversation necessarily drifted into more serious courses. It could jiardly be otherwise in view of the circum- stances by which they were all surrounded. Youth and beauty and love cannot always feast upon themselves. They must perforce return to the stark realities of life. They spoke of the war and of all the miseries attendant upon it — the sufferings of the poor, the privations of the sick, the anxieties of parents, the pangs of absence, the rigours of the cold, and thejterrible sac- rifices which even the commonest soldier is obliged to make. The two girls listened with tears as Gary graphically recounted his experiences, which, though relieved at times by touches of humor, were profoundly sad. Then Zulma, in eloquent lan- |guage and passionate gestures, gave her view of the situation. [Pauline was mostly silent. Her role was to receive the con- fr f 262 THE BASTONNAIS. Ii' I'lii ! fidences of others, rather than to communicate her own. At times, in the march of discourse, the veil of the future was timidly raised, but immediately dropped again, with an instinc- tive shrinking of the three young hearts. That far they durst not look. The present was more than sufficient for them to bear. A gentle, merciful Providence would provide for the rest. Who can gauge the eff"ect upon the participants of this inter- view, in such a place, at such an hour, and amid so many singular circumstances ? It was deep, searching, and inefface- able, and the sequel of our history will show that most of its culminating events were directly traceable to this memorable evening. When M. Belmont stepped forward with Batoche, he at once addressed himself to Gary Singleton, asking his advice on the subject of the conference just held in the alcove. The young •officer, after blushing and faltering at the suddenness of the ap- peal, replied in a manly fashion that, although he was an apostle of liberty with pistol and sabre, and entirely devoted to the cause, even to the shedding of his heart's blood, he could not presume upon giving advice to such a man as M. Belmont. He was too young, for one thing, and, for another, he was not sufficiently acquainted with the circumstances of the case. He added, glancing with ardour at the two fair girls beside him, that they would be better able to determine the question, Mademoiselle Belmont taking counsel of her father's welfare, and Mademoiselle Sarpy speaking for the benefit of her dearest friend. Thus appealed to, Zulma declared promptly that she had no opinion on the advisability of M. Belmont remaining out of the town, but that if he resolved upon doing so, she of- fered him, in the name of her father and in her own, a welcome home in the Sarpy mansion. In fact, she insisted that she would allow her to live nowhere else. Gary smiled and thank- ed Zulma with an approving nod. Pauline had not a word to A PAINFUL MEETING. 263 utter, but her answer was only too painfully significant when she buried her face in her hands and gave way to a tempest of grief. Perplexity was painted on every countenance. Batoche alone retained his equanimity, and calmly, but with a tone al- most of authority, he said : " M. Belmont, it is near midnight. There is a long road to travel. A decision must at once be made. What do you say ?" M. Belmont still hesitated. " Then, Pauline will decide. Come, my dear, shall we go or stay ?" Pauline immediately rose, and with a look of pathetic im- ploring, murmured : " Oh, father, let us go." M. Belmont instantly complied. As Batoche signified his intention of going along, in order to see them safe within the walls, Zulma earnestly demanded permission to accompany him. M. Belmont, Pauline, and Gary tried their best to dis- suade her, but the old soldier silenced their objections by at once according his consent. The wounded officer having re- ceived the last attention for the night, the party took their de- parture. They reached Quebec without incident, and Batoche readily found an opening for them into the town from a ravine in the valley of the St. Charles. Zulma and Pauline embraced each other fervidly. " Before we separate, I have a dreadful secret to tell you," said Pauline. " What is it, my dear ?" " Do you know who pointed the gun that wounded the Cap-^ tain ?" " I do not." " Can't you guess ?" " No." " It was Roderick Hardinge." I U ■ti -ii 264 THE BASTONNAIS. The eyes of the two friends exchanged sparks of fire. On the return journey, Zulma inquired of Batoche : — " Do you know who fired the fatal gun against you from the walls ?" " I do." " Does Captain Singleton know it ?" " He does not." Why did you not tell him ?" " On account of little Pauline." \ NISI DOMINUS. 2Gb from the XVII. NISI DOMINUS, Quebec wss the centre of missionary labor for years before our Atlantic coast was thoroughly settled. The church of San Domingo is older, having been founded in 1614. That of Mexico dates from 1524, and that of Havana was established at an earlier epoch still. But none of these can be said to have exercised the same influence which distinguished the city of Champlain. From Quebec came forth nearly all the mission- aries who evangelized the west and north-west. The children of Asisi and Loyola, whose names are immortalized in the pages of Bancroft, all set forth on their perilous wanderings under instructions issued from the venerable college whose ruins are still seen beneath the shadow of Cape Diamond. In the list of priests who resided at Quebec on the ist October, 1674, is found the name of Jacques Marquette. Little did that modest man then dream of the glory which was soon to be attached to his labors and explorations. By the discovery of the Mississippi not only did he add a vast territory to ths realms of his King, but he opened an immense field to the zeal of his Bishop, and extended the boundaries of the diocese of Quebec by thousands upon thousands of miles. Thus it hap- pens that Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Louis, New Orleans, Cin- cinnati, Louisville, and all our Western cities, though they did not then exist, now occupy ground which was under the juris- diction of the great Bishop, Francois Laval de Montmorencf, who was first raised to the See of Quebec two hundred years ago. It is no stretch of fancy, but the literal truth — and the picture is a grand one — that when Laval stood on the steps of s ( 'i 266 THE BASTONNAIS. I II' I I his high altar, in that venerable fane which has since been raised to the rank of a basilica, he could wave his crozier over a whole continent, from the Gulf of the St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the Red River of the North to the waters of Chesapeake Bay. Time has passed since then, and religion has progressed in such astonishing rates that sixty-two dioceses are at present said to have sprung from the single old diocese of Quebec. The sixth successor of Laval was Briand, the last French Bishop of Quebec under British domination. All those who succeeded him were Canadian bom. It was to him that M Belmont addressed himself for final counsel. He found the prelate alone in his study, calmly reading his breviary, while a pile of documents, letters and other papers lay on a table at his side. He wore a purple cassock, over which was a surplice of snow-white lace reaching to the knees. On his shoulders was attached a short violet cape. A pectoral cross hung from his neck by a massive chain of gold. The tonsured white head was covered by a small skull-cap of purple velvet. A large amethyst ring flashed on the second finger of the left hand. Monseigneur sat there the picture of serene force. While all around him was uproar, within his apartment the atmosphere of peace reigned with a visible, tangible presence. .The semi- nary where he resided was within a stone's throw of the bar- racks in Cathedral Square, but whereas the one was the con- tinual theatre of anxiety and excitement, the other was the scene of perpetual confidence and repose. And yet this lone- ly man was a principal actor in the events of 1775-76. His in- fluence had been, and was still, omnipotent and all pervading. From his quiet retreat he had sent forth a pastoral, at the be- ginning of hostilities, commending loyalty to Britain, and ex- horting all his followers to obey the teachings and example of their curates. And his voice had been heard. But for him, there is no telling how different the circumstances of the in- NISI nOMINUS. 267 vasion of Canada would have been. If Guy Carleton was Knighted for his successful defence of Quebec, surely Mon- seigneur Hriand should have received some token of favor from those whom he so faithfully served. Without the spiritual power, the material force could not have availed, and the sword of the commander would have been lifted in vain but for the Bishop's crook that scattered the initial obstacles of the con- test. The prelate received M. Belmont with the utmost kindness, for they were old friends. Placing his thumb within the closed leaves of his breviary, he asked his visitor to unfold to him freely the object of his coming, although there was an expres- sion in his countenance which showed that he divined the ob- ject. M. Belmont, who was agitated at first, gradually actjuir- ed sufficient self-possession to give a full* explanation of his case. He detailed his grievances, his apprehensions, and ex- plained the radical change which he had undergone in his political opinions. He ended by pointedly asking the Bishop whether he was not justified in taking a decided stand. Monseigneur had listened unmoved to the whole history, oc- casionally smiling languidly, occasionally looking very serious. His reply was given in the kindest tones, but there was the conscious authority of the chief pastor in every word which he uttered. " I too am a Frenchman, my friend," he said. " I have my feelings, my prejudices, my aspirations, like every other man. If I consulted only my heart, I believe you can guess where it would have led me. But I consult my head. I remember that I have a conscience. I am reminded that I have stern duties, as Bishop, to fulfil. The responsibility of them is something terrible. The cardinal doctrine of our theology is obedience to legitimate authority. The whole logic of the church is there. This principle permeates every department of life, from the highest to the lowest. It shines out through ; 268 THE BASTONNAIS. f 1 I ''I Uil ■ all our history. In the present instance, its application is plain. The English are our masters. They are such by the right of conquest — a sad right, but one which is thoroughly recognized. They have been our masters for sixteen years. In that time, they ha\ e not always treated us well. But there was ignorance rather than ill-will. Of late they have guaranteed the rights of our people and of the church. The Quebec Act is a standing proof of a desire of justice on the part of the English Govern- ment. And how do these Boston people regard the Quebec Act ? Judge for yourself." The Bishop here produced from among the papers on the the tabic a pictorial caricature of the Act. " See," he continued. " This represents Boston in flames and Quebec triumphant, and the print explains that thus popery and tyranny will triumph over true religion, virtue and liberty. Araong the other personages, look at the kneeling figure of a Catholic priest, with cross in one hand and gibbet in the other, assisting King George, as the print again says, in enforcing his tyrannical sysLem of civil and religious liberty. What do you think of that ? Does it look like the real fellow- ship for us which they profess in their proclamations ? Liberty and independence are fine words, my friend. I love them. But they may be catch-words as well, and we have to beware. Who assures us that the revolted Colonies are sincere ? After all, they are only Englishmen rebelling against their country. Even if they are justified in rebelling, does that fact justify us in joining them ? And what good reason have we to believe that they can bciler our lot? Will tl.ey respect our religion, lan- guage, and laws more Caan do oui present masters ? Reflect on these things. Do nothing imprudent. Remember your family. Respect your reputation. You have a fortune but it is not yours to waste by useless confiscation. It belongs to little Pauline. I respect your sympathies, and believe that you will soon have occasion to display thr-n, without prema- NISI DOMINUS. 269 ture action. This town will soon be attacked. Either the be- siegers will succeed or they will not. If they do not succeed, you will be able to ease your heart attending to the sick and wounded prisoners among them. If they do succeed, and Quebec is taken, then Canada is theirs, and they will become our masters instead of the English. Then the duty of us all will be clear, and you will have no difticuity in making your adhesion," The Bishop smiled as he laid down this common-sense pro- position, and so did M. Belmont who was thoroughly convinc- ed by its logic. He thanked Monseigneur for his strong ad- vice, and promised in most fervent language that he would carry it out. " Do so, my son," added the Bishop. '* I am pleased with your submission. Before a fortnight has elapsed, you will have reason to thank me again for the counsel." M. Belmont got down on his knees, and the prelate, rising, pronounced the episcopal benediction over his bent brow, giving him at the same time the pastoral ring to kiss. " Pray," said the Bishop, advancing a few steps with M. Belmont towards the door, " pray and ask your pious daughter to double her supplications that the right may triumph, and peace be soon restored. The shock will be terrible." " But the town is very strong," replied M. Belmont. The Bishop smiled again, and raising his finger in sign of warning, he repeated solemnly and slowly the grand lesson ; '''' Nisi Dominus custodierit civitatem. Unless the Lord keep the city, in vain they vatch who stand guard over it." \m 270 THE BASTONNAIS XVIII. LAST DAYS. ¥4\ ZuLMA spent the next morning in the exclusive company of Gary. Batoche bustled in ana out of the cabin, while little Blanche was kept busy at household work. The wounded man had had a good night, and thanks to the lotions and poultices :)f his old friend, felt much easier. About noon, the whole circle was most agreeably surprised by the arrival of Sieur Sarpy who drove up with his servant. He had come ex- pressly to see Gary, and, while condoling with him on his acci- dent, testified to his joy that he was on a fair way of recovery. He speedily commended the conduct of his daughter under the circumstances, and, in a long conversation with Batoche, took occasion to declare his cordial approval of the course which he had thought fit to pursue in the war. This com- mendation was very precious to the aged solitary, and he stated that it would serve as an encouragement to persevere, doing all in his power to keep his countrymen in the sacred cause of liberation. Towards evening Zulma returned to Gharlesbourg with her father, but on the following morning they both came to Mont- morenci again, and thus for several days, until Gary having been pronounced by Batoche quite able to travel, they prevail- ed upon him to pass the remainder of his convalescence at the Sarpy mansion. Batoche, who hud been kept in idleness by the illness of his friend, favoured the removal, as it gave him the opportunity of once more resuming his self-imposed mili- tary duties. For the same reason, he readily allowed little Blanche to accompany Zulma. LAST DAYS. 271 Gary remained five days with the Sarpys, and it is needless to say that the time rolled by as if on wheels of gold. What added to his enjoyment was that, through the medium of Batoche, Zulma managed to communicate daily with Pauline, and to receive answers from her, in every one of which she tenderly inquired about the young officer. He would willingly have tarried longer in this delicious re- treat, but at the end of the five days, having learned that stir- ring events were being prepared in camp, he decided that he was sufficiently recovered to take part in them. Indeed, he de- clared that he would take part in them even if he had to go on crutches. Zulma did not attempt to detain him. There were tears in her eyes when she bade him farewell, but the beautiful smile on her lips was an incentive to go and do his duty. " If I fear anything, it is on your account," he said. " Fear nothing," she replied. " I feel certain that we shall meet again," On reaching camp, where his return was acclaimed by all his comrades, Gary learned that the end was approaching. The great blow was at last to be struck. The whole month of De- cember had been wasted in a fruitless siege, and Montgomery determined that, for a variety of imperious reasons, he must at- tempt to carry the beetling fortress by storm. It was a des- perate alternative but the single gleam of success which at- tended it was all sufficient to cause its adoption. 272 THE BASTONNAIS. XIX. PRES-DE-VILLE. ;'■( 11; l-'.\ Everything was in readiness. The only condition to be waited for was a snow-storm, It came at length in the early morning of the 31st December. The army fell into lines at once, and by two o'clock, Montgomery's arrangements were all perfected. Ladders, spears, hatchets and hand grenades were in readiness. The plan of battle was this. Montgomery, at the head of one division, was to attack Lower Town from the west ; Arnold, at the head of the second division, was to at- tack Lower Town from the east, and they were both to meet at the foot of Mountain Hill, which they would ascend together, force the stockades on the site of Prescott Gate, and pour vic- toriously into Upper Town. In the meantime, Livingston, with a regiment of Canadians, and Biown, with part of a Bos- ton regiment, were to make false attacks on Cape Diamond Bastion, St. John and St. Louis Gates, which they were to fire, if possible, with combustible prepared for that purpose. Let us first follow Montgomery. Advancing from his quar- ters at Holland House, he crossed the Plains of Abraham, de- scended to Wolfe's Cove, and thence marched up the narrow road between the river and t^ 't towering crag of Cape Diamond. The night was dark as ink, a blinding snow-storm raged, and the sharp wind heaped the way with banks of drift. Silently the heroic column moved on, in spite of the terrible weather, until it reached a spot called Pres-de-Vilie, the narrowest point at the entrance of Lower Town. There it was stopped by a barrier which consisted of a log house containing a battery of three pounders. The post was under the command of two PRES-DE-VILLE. 273 Canadians, Chabot and Picard, with thirty miiitiameu of their own nationality, and a few British seamen acting as artillerists under Captain Barnsfare and Sergeant McQuarters. Mont- gomery did not hesitate. Ordering his carpenters to hew some posts that obstructed the way to the barrier, he pulled them down with his own hands, then drawing his sword, he put him- self at the head of a handful of brave followers, leaped over heaps of ice and snow, and charged. Sharp eyes were glaring through the loop-holes of the block house, the match was lit, the word trembled on tight-pressed Vipa. When the Americans were within forty paces, Barnsfare shouted " Fire !" and a volley of grape swept down the open space. Only one volley, but certainly the most fateful that was ever belched from a cannon's mouth. No shot was ever more terribly decisive. The air was heavy with the groans of the wounded and dy- ing. Thirteen bodies lay stretched in a winding sheet of snow. Foremost among them was that of Montgomery, There was a moment of silence, then the guns and muskets of the block house poured forth a storm of missiles. But all to no purpose, as the assaulting column, stunned by this first disaster, fell back in confusion and retreated precipitately to Wolfe's Cove. When daylight appeared, and news of the combat reached the authorities of the Upper Town, a party under James Thompson, the Overseer of Works, went out to view the field. As the snow had continued falling, the only part of a body that appeared above the surface was that of Montgomery himself, part of whose left arm and hand stood up erect, but the corpse was doubled up, the knees being drawn up to the face. Beside him lay his brave aids, McPherson and Cheeseman and one sergeant. The whole were frozen nard. Montgomery's sword was found near by. A drummer boy snatched it up, but Thompson secured it for himself and it is kept to this day as an heirloom in his family. Meigs, who served with Montgomery, pays this affecting it 274 THE BASTONNAIS tribute. " He was tall and slender, well-limbed, of a genteel, easy, graceful, manly address, and had the voluntary iove, es- teem and confidence of the whole army. His death, though honourable, is lamented, not only as the death of an amiable, worthy friend, but as an experienced, brave general ; the whole country suffers greatly by such a loss at this time. The native goodness and rectitude of hi? heart might easily be seen in his actions. His sentiments, which appeared on every occasion, were fraught with that unaffected goodness which plainly dis- covered the goodness of the heart from whence they flowed." Montgomery had said : " We shall eat our Christmas dinner in Quebec." Alas sill til ■ m If '^' It:.*.: genteel, love, es- , though amiable, he whole le native sn in his occasion, linly dis- flowed." as dinner "8 A ULT-AU-MATELOT. 275 XX. S AU LT- AU-M ATE LOT, Arnold moved his division from the General Hospital in the St. Roch's Suburb, but not so secretly as Montgomery bad done. The roar of cannon, the ringing of bells, the rattle of drums aroused and alarmed the slumbering town. His men crept along the walls in single file, covering the locks of their guns with the lappets of their coats, and holding down their heads on account of the driving snow storm, until they reached the point of their attack in Sault-au-Matelot street. This is one of the legendary streets of Quebec. It lies directly under the Cape, and is supposed to derive its name from a sailor who leaped into it from above. Creuxius has a prosier explanation- " Ad confluentem promontoriutn assurs^it quod saltum nautle, ab- :hurch \s. At there IS seat, )rward [gently She did so at once, and the two glided noiselessly into the vestry. There the priest, after divesting himself of his surplice, turned towards the girl, and in the gentlest manner inquired after her health and that of her father. He then signified his pleasure at her punctual discharge of her devotions, in spite of the ex- tremely inclement weather. " It is a great festival, but it will bring no joy this year," he said. Zulroa, whose countenance still preserved its paleness and expression of extreme gravity, replied that the times were in- deed melancholy, but that she nevertheless hoped to enjoy a quiet your de V An with her father and immediate neighbours, having made all the necessary preparations to that end. " You have not heard then, my daughter ?" said the priest. " Heard w> I, «ir ?" v " Of the tembi'^ . -'em» which took place this night while we were sleeping." Zulma looked up with a movement of deep anxiety and asked : " What has happened sir ?" " Two great battles have been fought." Is it possible i"' Many killed, wounded, and prisoners." Who, where, how ?" gasped Zulma in agony. " Quebec was attacked in two places." " And captured ?" demanded Zulma, unable to restrain her- self. " No, my daughter. Both attacks were repulsed." Zulma clasped her hands to her forehead and would have sunk to the floor had she not been sustained by the good priest. " Courage, my dear, ' he said. " Excuse me for telling you these things, but I saw from your deportment in the church that you knew nothing of them, and I thought it would be well that I should be the first to inform you," T II It « * I m I ! I »■ I ( 282 THE BASTONNAIS. " Pardon my weakness, Monsieur Le Cur^," was the meek reply. " I had indeed expected this, but the news is terribly sudden all the same. I entreat you to give me all the par- ticulars which you know. I feel stronger now and can hear anything." " I know little that is definite. Id the general excitement, all sorts of rumours are aggravated when they reach us at this distance. But I am assured that General Montgomery has been killed and Colonel Arnold wounded. I knew these gentlemen. They dined several times at my table. They were fine men and I liked them well. I am distressed to hear of their misfortune." " Have you heard of the fate of any other officers?" " Of none by name, except that it was a certain Morgan who replaced Arnold and surrendered his army." " Morgan ?" exclaimed Zulma, and this time she was so overcome that she fell exhausted in a chair. The priest was considerably surprised. Notwithstanding that his periodical visits to the Sarpy mansion had been interrupted during the American occupation of Pointe-aux- Trembles, he knew in a general way that Zulma had become acquainted with one or the other of the officers, which was the main reason why he judged that the early communication of the war news from his lips would be particularly interesting to Sieur Sarpy and his daughter, but he had no suspicion that Zulma's feelings went further, and had thus no idea of the effect which his words produced upon her. It was only when he saw her extreme depression and sorrow that he surmised something of the truth, with that instinct which is characteristic of men, who, themselves separated from the world by the stem law of celibacy, devote all their attention to the spiritual and temporal concerns of their flocks. " Do not be depressed," he said, approaching Zulma's chair, and bending towards her with the kindness of a father towards THE CONFESSIONAL. 2d3 : meek terribly he par- li hear tement, 5 at this lery has V these They to hear gan who ! was so standing id been inte-aux- become was the ;ation of sting to ion that le effect hen he [urmised ^cteristic by the ipiritual his child. " Perhaps the news is exaggerated. We shall hear more towards evening, and it may turn out that the losses are not so great as represented. At least there may be no loss personal to yourself, my dear, and I trust that such will prove to be the fact. Therefore take heart. It is getting late. The snow continues falling and the roads must be blocking up. Return home and endeavour to maintain your soul in peace. To-morrow, you will come to early mass, when I trust that we shall have better news to tell each other." In spite of the cheering words of the pastor, Zulma drove homeward with a heavy heart. She spoke not a word to her servant. Instead of raising her face to the storm and allowing the flakes to beat upon it, as was her wont, when her spirits were high, she kept her veil down, and the handkerchief which she frequently drew from under it gave proof that she was silently weeping. It often happens, that the most bois- terous, lofty women bear their grief in unostentatious quiet, giving it a more forcible relief from contrast. Thus was it in the present instance with Zulma. Revolving in her mind all that the priest had told her, and having full leisure during the journey to appreciate all its terrible contingencies, she was completely prostrated when she reached home. On descend- ing from the sleigh she glided softly to her room, where she locked herself in so as to be absolutely alone. She remained thus until nearly the supper hour, and after the shadows of evening had enveloped her. m I's chair, Itowards 284 tHE fiASTONNAtS. II. BLANCHE'S PROPHECY. When Sieur Sarpy met his daughter at the table, he divined at once that something wa^ wrong. He himself had heard nothing. The prevalence of the snow-storm had prevented any one from calling at his mansion, except the few needy neighbours who had gone early in the morning to receive their regular alms. The day had passed in solitude, and as the old gentleman had had no misgivings whatever, he spent his time most agreeably in the perusal of his favourite books. He must have happened on light and cheerful liteiature, because, when he concluded his reading and came down to supper, he was in more than his usual enlivened mood. But the spectacle of Zulma's swollen eyes, pinched features and constrained manner, checked his flow of good humour and arrested the pleasant anecdote which his lips were about to utter. Naturally enough he did not suspect the real cause of his daughter's sorrow. He knew that she had driven down to the village church for her devotions, and of course presumed that some- thing had happened to her there. He was once on the point of teasing her about the scolding which he supposed that the priest had administered to her, but he immediately checked himself. With the well-bred old French gentleman deep respect formed perhaps the chief ingredient of the ardent love which he bore his daughter. He carried his consideration so far that he would not even question her. It became therefore incumbent on Zulma to break the painful silence. She detailed the narrative which the priest had given her, supplementing it largely with the comments dictated by her fears. The effect BLANCHE'S PROPHECY. 285 divined I heard evented V needy ve their the old [lis time ts. He 3ecause, pper, he pectacle strained sted the aturally ughter's I village ,t some- le point hat the :hecked deep nt love .tion so lerefore etailed Inting it e effect upon Sieur Sarpy was hardly less than it had been upon his daughter. He listened in profound silence, but with an anxiety and surprise which he did not attempt to conceal. For a long time he ventured to make no reply, and when at length he did so, it was in such hesitating language as showed that he was haunted by the same apprehensions which besieged his daughter. He had therefore scant consolation to offer her, and the evening meal thus passed without any break in that mental gloom which was deeper than the darkness which rolled in the exterior heavens. Little Blanche sat at Zulma's side listening to the discourse with wide distended eyes, and that expression of vacancy which was so frequent with this strange child. Not a word had escaped her, and it was evident that the effect was as great upon her acute mind as upon that of her two companions. " If Batoche would only come," murmured Zulma, passing her hand over her weary brow. " He would tell us everything. I wonder he is not here already." " His absence is an additional cause for fear," replied Sieur Sarpy in a low voice. " Still, I do not despair. He may arrive before the night is over." "If he is alive." " What, papa ? You do not suppose that Batoche took part in the attack ? " " I do. I am sure he never quitted the side of Cary Singleton." *• I did not think of that. Alas ! I fear you are right. In that case, who knows?" " Yes, the worst may have happened to our old friend, and he may never retuiji." Both Zulma and her father instinctively looked at little Blanche. An angelic smile played upon her lips and her eyes were far away. ,1 ' I' 286 THE BASTONNAIS. lH " Blanche," said Zulma, laying her hand softly on the child's shoulder. " Yes, Mademoiselle. Grandpapa when he left me, two days ago, said au rhoir. That means, * I will see you again.' " " But perhaps those bad men have killed him." "What bad men? The Wolves?" Zulma did not understand, but Sieur Sarpy understood very well. " Yes, the Wolves, my dear," he said with a sad smile. " Oh, my grandfather does not fear the Wolves. The Wolves fear him. They cannot catch him, no matter what great dangers he may be in. He may suffer, he may be wounded, but he will not die except near our cabin at the Falls, under the eye of my mother and with a blessing for me. He has often told me this at night as he held me on his knee, and I believe all that my grandfather says. No, Mademoiselle, he is not dead and will soon arrive to console you." Zulma could not restrain her tears as she heard the simple pathos of these childish words, and suddenly a confidence sprung up in her heart, which sacerdotal speech had been unable to infuse. She pushed her chair from the table, lifted Blanche from her seat and set her on her own knees^ pillowing the little head on her bosom, and imprinting warm kisses of gratitude on the slight forehead. Sieur Sarpy looked on, and appeared pleased. No doubt a similar assurance awoke within him. " If Batoche comes at all, he will come to-night. We know his punctuality and his readiness to do a'service. The weather is bad and the roads must be in a wretched state, but this will be no obstacle to his reaching the mansion. We learn, how- ever, that a great many prisoners have been taken. Batoche may possibly be among them. In that case, we shall, of course, resign ourselves not to see him to-night." Blanche's prophecy. 287 Raising her head from Zulma's shoulder, Blanche said rapidly and with some animation : " No, M. Sarpy, grandpapa is not a prisoner. He has always said that the Wolves would never catch him and I believe all that he says." Sieur Sarpy smiled, and made no reply, but he had a vague belief that perhaps the child might be right after all. ,: ! 1 ' 288 THE BASTONNAIS. III. THE PROPHECY FULFILLED. She was right. The evening wore away slowly. The ser- vant cleared the table and trimmed the fire. Sieur Sarpy, instead of retiring to his private chamber, wheeled his chair to the hearth, and resumed the reading which he had interrupted be- fore supper. Zulma continued to hold Blanche on her knee and, sitting before the glowing fire, they both dropped off into sleep. With the child, it was genuine slumber mingled with pleasant dreams, as the smile upon her lips and the lines that played upon her brow and cheeks clearly testified. With Zulma it was not real sleep, but somnolence, or rather the tor- por of dim meditations. Her eyes were closed, her head was thrown back upon the rocking chair, her limbs were somewhat extended, while an air of forced resignation or preparation for the worse was set upon her noble features. The blue and yellow flames of the chimney flickered wantonly upon her face; the moan of the wind around the gable drummed into her ear, while the slow flight of the hours which she heeded not, yet noted distinctly from the strokes of the old clock, lapsed her soul farther and farther away into the vague spaces of oblivion. Gradually Sieur Sarpy, yielding to the influence of heat and solitude, dropped his book upon his knee, and closed his eyes for a brief respite of repose. But for the outside sounds of nature and an occasional gust in the fire place, everything within that room was as silent as the grave. The respiration of its three living beings was barely audible, a proof that at least none of them suffered from physical pain. Everything betokened peace and security. If the rest of the country-side THE PROPHECY FULFILLED. 289 was wild with war or the rumours of war, the Sarpy mansion lay in the bliss of a profound unconsciousness. Suddenly Zulma moved about in her seat, and rolled her head from side to side on the chair, as if a vision was flitting before her and the light of the hearthstone. She slowly open- ed her eyes, closed them again tightly in order to strengthen their force, and opened them a second time. Ten o'clock struck. She had been resting for two hours. It was time that she should rise and retire to her room. She sat up erect and, in doing so, looked directly forward again. She could not be mistaken. There was really a shadow between her and the fire. By a rapid effort of her strong will, she acquired full con- sciousness and recognized Batoche. Another glance of almost aching velocity revealed to her that his brow was placid, his eye soft, and that the traces of a smile lingered at the comers of his lips. This spectacle at once reassured her. She felt that all was not as bad as it might have been or as she had fancied it was. " Batoche," she said holding out her right hand, " you have surprised me, but it is a delicious surprise. You cannot imagine how glad I am to see you. Sit down." Then little Blanche awoke and sprang from Zulma's knee into the arms of her grandfather. " I knew it," she sobbed. " I knew he would come." " Yes," replied Zulma. " Blanche told us, when we feared evil had befallen you, that you would surely come. She is a dear girl, and a prophetess like her grandfather." A moment later Zulma had aroused Sieur Sarpy, and after a few preliminary words of welcome, Batoche was installed in a chair before the fire, with Blanche upon his knees, and asked to recount his story in its minutest details. Zulma had not dared to put him the single predominant question which was present in her mind, partially trusting, as we have seen, to the serenity of the old man's countenance, but- he, with his usual ll I ) n 4 290 THE KASTONNAIS. keen insight, answered it before entering upon the course of his narration. " It is all wrong and yet all right," he said with a swift wave of his arm. Zulma looked at him imploringly. " We have been beaten," continued Batoche. " The Wolves have triumphed. Many of our bravest officers were killed, but Captain Singleton was only wounded." " Wounded again !" exclaimed Zulma. " But not very seriously. He fell, but I raised him from the snow and he was able to stand alone, and walk." " Did he escape ?" " He could not. I tried to induce him to follow me. He ordered me to fly, but he declared that he must remain with his command." " What then ?" " He was taken prisoner, but, be easy. He is in good hands ?" " In good hands ?" " Yes. I saw Roderick Hardinge directly in front, and I am sure that he recognized him." " Heaven be praised for that." " He is now within the walls of Quebec, but he will be well cared for." Batoche then took up the account from the beginning and detailed all its circumstances, both from what he had witnessed himself and from what he had afterwards heard at headquarters. The report was graphic and lucid, such as might be expected from so intelligent a soldier. It was midnight before he had closed the history, and his companions listened to it with the most absorbed attention. " And now about yourself," said Sieur Sarpy. " How did you manage to escape ?" Both Batoche and little Blanche smiled, the child nestling more closely and lovingly in his arms. THE PROr.tECY FULFILLED. 291 " Have I not always told you that the Wolves could not capture me ? At least they will never take me alive. Although I and my men had enlisted only as scouts, when the final at< tack on the town was determined upon, I resolved to be pre- sent. I wished to be associated in that great revenge if it was successful, and, if unsuccessful, I wished to share the dangers of those who fought for our liberty. Besides I could not abandon Gary Singleton, my dear friend and the friend of the kind lady who had taken my grand-daughter under her care." Zulma accepted the compliment with a bow and the tribute of grateful tears. At first everything appeared in our favour, but after Colonel Arnold was wounded, the men fell into disorder, and I knew that we should have trouble. What added to our discomfiture, was that we were confronted mainly by our own countrymen. Our own countrymen, Sieur Sarpy. There was Dumas who led them. There was Dambourges who performed prodigies of valour. There was a giant, named Charland, who sprang upon the barrierand pulled our ladders over it to his own side. The sight of these things enraged and paralyzed me. If we had had only the English to deal with, we should have suc- ceeded, but when the French lent a hand it was too much. When at length we were completely surrounded and our men fell on every side. Captain Singleton, as I have said, ordered me to escape. * You can do no good now,' he said. * We are lost. Fly and tell our friends all that has happened. Tell M. Sarpy and Mademoiselle Zulma that I have not forgotten them in this most terrible of all my misfortunes.' I obeyed these orders. The flight was almost as desperate as the ad- vance. Accompanied by my men and several Indians, we threw ourselves into a narrow path along the river, till we reached the frozen bed of the St. Charles, which we crossed with the greatest difficulty. We had to run two miles over shoal ice ormed by the high tides, and encountering numerous air-holes 292 THE BASTOVNAIS. hidden from us by the darkness and the falling snow. After countless hardships and dangers, we succeeded in reaching the opposite bank, whence we could hear the last sounds of battle in the distance. We stopped to listen until all was quiet and we knew that the fate of our unfortunate companions was seal- ed. Then we made our way to the headquarters at St. Foye, where we were the first to convey the terrible intelligence to Colonel Arnold. There too we learned full particulars of Montgomery's defeat. After taking the needful rest, I disband- ed my men to their houses for a brief furlough, while I turned my steps directly to this mansion. Here I am and I have told my story. Was I not justified in saying that it is all wrong and yet all right ?" II DAYS OF SUSPENSE. IV. DAYS OF SUSPENSE. Now that Zulma knew all, her anxiety was hardly less than when she was left to her own painful surmises. It was a relief, of course, to be certain that Gary's wound was not a dangerous one, and that, as he was doomed to be a prisoner, he would have the good offices of Roderick Hardinge. Of the latter's kindly disposition towards her friend she had not the least doubt. Indeed, it added to her satisfaction to believe that he would treat Gary well precisely for her own sake. Thinking over this subject she found herself more than once mentally expressing a deep admiration of the British officer. She pictured to herself with intense vividness the beauty of his person, the manliness of his carriage, and the hearty warmth, ease, and culture of his conversation. At times she almost fancied that Gary's lot was not such a hard one after all, free from further dangers, exempt from the winter hardships of his former quarters, and enjoying the society of so congenial a character as Roderick Hardinge. A sad smile glided across her face as she thought that she would he disposed to bear a little captivity herself for the sake of such companionship. But all these feelings lay only on the surface. In the recesses of her heart, she grieved over the utter failure of the Americans, over their blasted hopes, their ruined ex- pectations, and over the terrible catastrophe which had over- taken so many of their principal officers. She particularly bewailed the unequal share of misfortune which had overtaken Gary Singleton. Twice wounded and now a prisoner — surely this was an unusually rude experience for a youth of one and I 294 THE BASTONNAIS. twenty. And then she was deprived of his company as he of hers. She wondered — and the thought, in spite of her, was an additional pang — whether he would feel the isolation as much as she. She had no knowledge how long the captivity would last. Batoche had not been able to enlighten her on this head. If the remnant of the Continental army retreated, these unfortu- nate men would doubtless be left behind to pine in their prisons. If the siege was to continue during the remainder of the winter, they would be kept to prevent them from swelling the ranks of the invaders. In either case, the prospect was very dark. Zulma remained in this state of doubt and depression for a week, during which she and her father received further particulars of the great battles, so that now they understood their nature fully, but they learned absolutely nothing con- cerning the prisoners, nor indeed concerning any one within the walls of the town. Batoche, who came out to them a couple of times during that interval, stated that he had tried every night to contrive an entrance, but found all the avenues so closely guarded that he had to abandon each attempt. He added, however, that he was sure this extraordinary vigilance would not be kept up a length of time. So soon as the garrison became satisfied that the besieging army did not meditate a renewal of the attack — at least a speedy renewal — they would relax their watchfulness, which must be a severe strain upon the comparatively small number of the troops. This assurance [afforded Zulma only slender consolation. It pointed to a further delay, and delay, with all its uncertainties, was what she was then incapable of enduring. A further source of society was that she and her father had no tidings whatever of Eugene since the great event. Previously they heard of and from him frequently through the visits which Batoche paid the Belmonts. At the end of a fortnight, Batoche arrived at the Sarpy ■ I ! DAYS OF SUSPENSE. \ 295 mansion with a bit of more definite news. He had not himself succeeded in penetrating to the interior of the town, but he had unexpectedly met in the woods, near his hut, at Montmorenci, a poor broken down countryman of his who had deserted from the militia. From him he heard that the prisoners were confined in a portion of the Seminary, occupying comfortable quarters, and precisely one of the causes of his desertion was that he and his companions were deprived of their best rations for the benefit of these fellows. He further stated that, at the battle at Sault-au-Matelot, the young students of the Seminary found themselves engaged and behaved pretty well, but none of them suffered. This was a source of great pleasure to both Sieur Sarpy and Zulma and it dispelled their misgivings about Eugene. Another piece of news brought by this deserter was that, after firing the fatal shot at Pres-de-ville, the little garrison of the block-house fell into a panic and fled in the utmost precipitation, and it was only when they found that they were not pursued that they ventured to return. " Ah !" exclaimed Batoche, "if the officer, who took the command after the brave Montgomery, had only pressed on, the block-house would have been carried, Arnold would have been reinforced, the combined assault would have been a complete success, and Quebec would now be ours." " What is the name of that officer ?" inquired Zulma. " I do not know him, but I believe they call him Campbell." " Coward, if not a traitor," exclaimed the girl, rising from her seat and exhibiting her scorn by a strange contraction of features. Whatever the cause, the conduct of Campbell was inex- plicable* There appears no doubt that he could have con- tinued the assault successfully after Montgomery's death, and it is more than probable that his triumph would have insured that of Arnold. But there is no use speculating on this. A great commander has said that war is largely made up of accidents, favourable and unfavourable, I' I' '; 1 i. 296 THE BASTONNAIS. V. THE INVALID. Batoche displayed his usual foresight when he predicted that the garrison of Quebec would soon slacken its vigilance. Arnold with the small remnant of his shattered forces gave up all attempt at a complete investment, but confined himself to an alert blockade. He burned the houses in the suburbs that interfered with his plan of operations. On his side, Carleton made a sortie or two to burn the rest of the houses in St. Roch's, with the double purpose of clearing the spaces before his guns and supplying the town with fire-wood, which was getting short. With his two thousand men he could easily have pounced upon the five or six hundred Americans and routed or captured them, thus effectually raising the siege, but for some reason or other, which has never been satisfactorily explained, he pre- ferred to pursue the Fabian policy, and trust to the return of spring and the arrival of reinforcements from the sea for ultimate deliverance. He kept his troops well in hand, but it was natural with the weary length of the siege and the long inaction which followed the attack rn New Year's eve, his men should get more or less demoralized. The desertion mentioned in the preceding chapter was followed by many others, especially of American soldiers whom he had unwisely enlisted in one of his corps, instead of keeping them rigidly as prisoners. These men seized every opportunity to escape, and through them Arnol i became acquainted with all that was going on within the town. Among these sources of information were long letters written by his captive officers, in one of which it THE INVALID. 297 ough joing were ich it was stated that Captain Singleton's wound having induced a serious inflamation of the lungs, he had been allowed to be transported to the house of a private family. When Batoche became possessed of this important intelligence he immediately repaired to the Sarpy mansion and acquainted Zulma with it. " I wonder who are the kind friends that have taken him in," said Zulma, after lamenting this new danger that threatened her friend. " Can't you guess ?" asked Batoche, and his knowing smile went straight to the heart of his companion. " I hope that you guess true." " Be assured of it, but to clear away all doubts, I am resolv- ed to find my way into Quebec to-night. I have a plan that will succeed. The deserter whom I met the other day has given me his uniform in exchange for other clothing which will enable him to move about the country in safety. I will dis- guise myself in this uniform. The Wolves will take me for one of themselves. I will carry musket, knapsack, and all. If you have any message or letters for your friends, prepare them at once. I will carry them about me in such a manner that they shall not be discovered, and I will safely deliver them. I have made up my mind to get into the town to-night, and I will do it. I have a definite purpose and it shall be accom- plished. Captain Singleton is sick and I must see him in per- » son. As Batoche spoke these words, his face was marked by a calm determination which was proof against every obstacle, and there was an expression of sadness besides, indicative of the concern which he felt for the safety of Cary Singleton's life. The old man was as good as his word. On returning to quarters, he donned the disguise of the deserter, and, when the proper hour of the night came, went off to reconnoitre under the walls. He travelled long and wearily. Several times he ' I' 298 THE BASTONNAIS. was espied, or fancied he was espied, by the sentinels on the rampart. Once he was fired upon. But at length by dint of skill, courage, and perseverance, he managed co scale a parapet and drop quietly into a dark street, just as the sentry, return- ing on his beat, remained above him with glistening weapon. He crouched in a comer to make sure that he had been un- seen and unheard. Very provocatively, the guard stood a con- siderable time gazing at nothing, but he stepped forward final- ly, and Batoche slipped away. He went directly to the house of M. Belmont, where, as his time was short, he would be best able to get all the information that he wanted. " I promised M. Belmont," he muttered to himself, " that I would not go near his house again, but that was because I was a rebel. Now I am a loyalist, a devoted servant of King George, and I wear his glorious livery. There can, therefore, be no possible objection to my visit." And the old man chuckled as he neared his destination. It was not later than eleven o'clock, but the house was still and dark. There were no lights on the front, and the snow was untrampled on the stairs and sidewalk. Batoche hesitated a moment, fearing that some misfortune might have happened to his friends within the four or five weeks since he had last seen them. But on moving cautiously to the rear, • he saw a bright light in the kitchen and a fainter one in an upper room. ^ " All is well," thought he, as he ascended the steps and knocked at the kitchen door. His rap echoed loud within, and he heard the shuffling of fiying female feet. He then tried the lock, but found the door double-barred. " I have frightened the maid and the house is barricaded, but I hope the girl will have sense enough to announce that somebody is at the door." Presently the muffled stamping of manly slippers became audible and Batoche recognized the tread of M. Belmont, M THE INVALID. 299 and then led, Ithat ■s. 4 y " Who is there ?" " A friend." " Your name ?" Batoche durst not give his name even in a whisper, for the winds of suspicion might bear it to headquarters. " What do you want at this hour ?" " Fear nothing. Open the door and I will tell you." - " I will not open." M. Belmont was not a timid man, but evidently these pre- cautions had become necessary in the present demoralized condition of the town. Batoche was in a quandary, but his native sagacity soon came to his aid. Putting his mouth close to the key-hole, he sent through it the low bark of the wolf. M. Belmont opened his eyes wide as he heard it, and a sickly smile spread over his face, but he lost no time in turning the lock. Through a very small aperture the stranger glided into the room. " Batoche !" - "M. Belmont !" ' ^ A few whispered words explained everything — the disguise, the motive of the visit, and all the rest. M. Belmont recover- ed his equanimity and led his friend to a front room. " I have no time to lose. I must see him," said Batoche. . " He is very ill and now sleeping." " Who is with him ?" \ " Pauline. She never leaves him." " Stay a moment. Roderick Hardinge may be here at any moment. He calls every evening about this hour. He must not meet you." " Never fear. It will be easy to keep out of his sight." The two friends then ascended to the sick room — Pauline's own chamber. On the little bed lay the fine form of the young American soldier, stretched out at full length under snow-white coverlets. The face was drawn down and narrowed, the eyes f \ ^ 300 THE fiASTONNAlS. were sunken, while the fever played in lurid lines about the cheek-bones and ample forehead. The masses of curly hair lay moist upon the pillow. By the dim light of the shaded lamp on the table near by, Gary looked like a corpse, silent, immoveable — how different from the manly figure which Batoche had seen doing battle by his side in the terrible defile of Sault-au-Matelot. Pauline sat in a low chair at the head of the bed^ the love- liest picture of sad, suffering beauty. There were dark lines under her eyes that told of long watches, and a slight stoop in her shoulders indicative of weariness against which the gener- ous, loving spirit was struggling. When the stranger entered the apartment with her father, she neither moved from her seat nor made any sign. Her idea was that it was probably a sol- dier whom Roderick, unable to come himself, had sent to in- quire about the invalid. But when the man approached near- er, and M. Belmont, preceding him, whispered something in her ear, she rose with the pressure of both hands upon her throbbing heart. You ■■.. . . . t i. "No." _ , , , ■ ,> " Who are you ?" , .. " Your enemy." The strange man advanced a step and looked full into Batoche's face. " Ah ! it is you, at last, and disguised in his Majesty's uniform. I knew I would catch you yet. Take this." He raised an enormous horse pistol which he pointed at the old man's forehead. With the left hand Batoche struck up the levelled arm, while with his right he whipped out a long hunter's knife from his belt. The struggle was brief. The pistol went off grazing the edge of Batoche's fox-skin cap, and the hunter's blade plunged deep into the patrolman's heart. The latter rolled into the snow without a groan, and Batoche fled with the sound of footsteps, attracted by the pistol's report, sounding in his ears. He encountered no further obstacle, crossing the wall at the same spot which he had chosen in the earlier part of the evening, and almost in sight of a sentinel who was half asleep on his carbine. " That fellow will never trouble me or M. Belmont again," i h 308 THE BASTONNAIS. thought Batoche. " And what is better they will not know that I did it. I am only sorry for Monsieur Hardinge, who will have to provide himself with another servant." The death of Donald created a great excitement in the town. Besides that he was well known and much esteemed as a faithful, active soldier, the mj'stery that attended his fate aroused the most painful feelings. Was it due simply to a moonlight brawl, were any of the disaffected men of the gar- rison concerned in it, or had some of the American prisoners, in attempting to effect their escape, committed the deed ? A thorough investigation took place, but no clue to the tragedy could be found. Roderick Hardinge was particularly distress- ed. After exhausting all the means of inquiry, a suspicion of the truth flashed upon him, and roused the stormiest indigna- tion in his mind. His vexation was the greater, that, if his conjecture were correct, it would place him in a difficult posi- tion towards the Belmonts. Once already, as he only too well remembered, his military duties had led him to a bitter misun derstanding with Pauline's father, and, several times since, the operation of the same cause had rendered their mutual rela- tions very precarious. Both of them had made concessions, and the young officer was generous enough to admit to him- self that M. Belmont had borne a very trying part in the most noble spirit. But, in the present instance, the element of pub- licity in Donald's death was a particularly disturbing circum- stance, and it preyed so much on Roderick's mind that for two or three days he avoided calling at the house of M. Bel- mont. Pauline and her father noticed the absence without being able to account for it. They had indeed heard of Donald's death, but it never entered into their remotest sus- picions that Batoche had anything to do with it. At length, when his mind was calmer, Hardinge went to inquire after the health of Gary Singleton. He made that appear the main ob- ject of his visit. In spite of himself he was constrained in bOtlALD*S FAtE. 309 ot know ige, who t in the lemed as his fate ply to a the gar- risoners, ed? A tragedy distress- icion of indigna- t, if his lit posi- too well r misun nee, the lal rela- essions, to him- le most ofpub- circum- at for Bel- ithout rd of t sus- ength, er the in ob- led in manner while addressing a few words to M. Belmont, and even towards Pauline he appeared cold and formal. On conducting him to the door, the girl ventured to ask him whether he was ailing. " I am ailing in mind, Pauline. I have tried my best to make things pleasant with my friends," and he looked sharply at her — " but this outrageous murder of my old servant has upset nearly all my calculations. I don't know what may come of it yet." Pauline understood nothing of his speech, but when she re- peated it to her father, he grew very excited and angry. " It is the hardest thing in life to serve two mastets, my deat. Roderick is a fine fellow, but perhaps if you or I had known less of him, our course would have been simpler, and we should not have to live in perpetual fear and trembling. I think I know what is on his mind, which would explain the coldness of his manner towards both of us. While I will stand strictly by the promise made to Monseigneur, I will not allow myself to be made the butt of any man's humour, and if Roderick holds the same conduct towards me to-morrow evening, I will attack him about it." M. Belmont's aspect was very decided as he spoke these words. Pauline, still comprehending nothing, retreated to the sick room with a load of apprehension at her heart. .;ja M I..: ••^- •' 310 THE BASTONNAIS. •:-jfv viif! THE BURDENED HEART. M Hi Nor was this her only sorrow. The morning after Batoche's visit, Gary's first thought, upon awakening, was about Zulma's letter. He asked Pauline to read it to him, which she did without delay. The note was short and simple. It expressed the writer's amazement and regret at the awful misfortune which had befallen Gary and his companions, and contained such sentiments of comfort as might have been expected from her warm heart and generous nature. The only remarkable sen- tence was the last one, which read as follows : " Do you know that all these adversities are making me selfish ? It seems to me that I am harshly treated. I know that you are in good hands, but it is my place to be beside you, and I am jealous of the chance which Pauline has of nursing you. Tell Pauline this. Tell her that I am dreadfully jealous, and that unless she brings you to health within a very few days, I shall myself lead a storming party which will succeed in wreaking its ven- geance. Pardon this banter. Give my love to Pauline. I write to her more on this subject." > : ;. -. j" These phrases were innocent and common-place enough, and they caused Gary to smile. Not so with Pauline. She read them with a serious face, and faltering accents, and when she closed, her eyes fell on those of the sick officer in a queer spirit of interrogation. " A very kind letter, such as I knew she would write. I hope to be able to thank her socu," he said. " And she has also written to you, mademoiselle ?" THE BURDENED HEART. 311 1, and read she lueer . I ha9. This was spoken in such a way as to show plainly that Gary would have desired this second letter to be read to him. Pauline thus understood it, but although the paper was secret- ed in her bosom, and she instinctively raised her hand to pro- duce it, she checked the movement and contented herself with saying that, among other things, Zulma had recommended her to take the utmost care of her patient. " Indeed !" said Gary smiling. " That was the excess of generosity, but she might have spared herself the trouble. Let me say it again, mademoiselle. Not my own mother, not my own sisters, not even Zulma Sarpy herself could do more for me than I receive at your hands, and if I recover, as I now be- lieve I shall, I will always hold that I owe my life to Pauline Belmont." This little speech thrilled the listener. It was spoken in a calm, pathetic tone, and the last sentence was accompanied by such a look as carried a meaning deeper than any words. Words, gesture, look — none of these things had escaped the girl, but what particularly struck her with unusual significance was that, for the first time, her patient had addressed her as " Pauline." Later in the day, when Pauline was alone for a few moments, she produced Zulma's letter and read it once more attentively. She could not disguise from herself that it was a noble letter, full of genercds feelings and instinct with that sympathy which one true friend should testify to another on occasions of such painful trials. Zulma wrote eloquently of the dangers and anxieties which Pauline must have experienced on that dread- ful December morning, and renewed her invitation to abandon the ill-fated town and take up her abode in the peaceful man- sion of Pointe-aux-Trembles. " You are not made for such terrible scenes, my dear " — these were her words — " I could bear them better, for they are in my nature. You should be in my place and I in yours. I would thus be in a position to s 312 THE BASTONNAIS. bear the fatigue of nursing him who is the dearest friend of us both." This was the phrase which had puzzled PauHne at the first reading, and which perplexed her still at the second. It was on account of this sentence that she did not read the letter to Gary. What could Zulma mean by it ? " She is much mistaken," thus Pauline soliloquized, " if she thinks I am unable to bear the burden which Providence has laid upon me. I am no longer what I was. These two months of almost constant agitation have nerved me to a courage which I never thought I could have had. They have complete- ly changed me. When I might have remained out of the town and gone to Pointe-aux-Trembles, it was I who persuaded my father to return to this house, and I do not regret it. I would not leave it now if I could. Much as I should like Zulma's company, and the benefit of her advice and example, I would not consent to exchange places with her." Pauline glanced at the letter again. ''-' ■ • ' ^'^.•: >vyt>ii " How curiously s he words the letter about my poor invalid ! She does not speak of him as Aer dearest friend, an expression which I would have expected her to use," here an involuntary tremour passed through Pauline's frame, " but she speaks of him as the dearest friend of us both. What does this mean ? Was it written spontaneously, or on deliberation ? It is a trap to draw me into indiscretions? No. Zulma is too true a friend . for that. Alas ! The dear girl does not know, cannot know, will never know the full bearing of the words." Pauline herself did not then know the full bearing of the words written with no intention of conveying the meaning which =:h r:i::: ".; ; J' ..3>i. i. :K-V. ■:". 314 THE BASTONNAIS. IX. EBB AND FLOW. ^11 Zulma's anxieties were no less than Pauline's. They in- creased from day to day, and she fretted herself almost into illness by her impatience. She knew that Gary's malady was of its nature a protracted one, and that the convalescence must necessarily extend over many weeks. She could hear from him only occasionally, and never with that fullness of detail which her affection required. She had recourse to many ex- pedients to ease her mind, but failure in every instance only sharpened the edge of her disappointment. Her chief attempt was to obtain admission into the town for the purpose of aiding Pauline in nursing the invalid. She quite appreciated all the delicacy of the step ; but, having obtained her father's cordial consent, she pursued it with all the energy of her nature. She applied for the necessary leave to her brother Eugene, who, having done soldier's duty, was supposed to be entitled to some little consideration at the hands of the authorities. Eugene was flatly refused. Zulma then enlisted the services of Rod- erick Hardinge, who somehow entered into her views with the greatest alacrity. " She would make a charming prisoner," he said gaily. But Hardinge failed. So did Bouchette, who had been ap- proached in the matter by his friend Belmont. The affair created quite a stir in this small circle of friends, relieving the monotony of the siege for the time being. Gary Singleton was very much amused as well as touched by it. But when it was at length ascertained that the Governor, usually so good- natured, was strangely inexorable in the present instance, EBB AND FLOW. 315 fcn ap- I affair the was was ;ood- mce, Pauline and her coadjutors gave up all hope of seeing Zulma among them. But the latter was not so easily discouraged. These rebuffs only added fuel to her desire, and though the time passed rapidly, she did not resign her project. Very seriously, she inquired of Batoche whether he could not smuggle her within the walls. The proposition at first struck the fancy of the old man, making his eyes glitter ; but, upon second thought, he laughed it away. " The. trouble would not be so much to smuggle you in, as to know what to do with you when once we got you in," he said slyly. " Women are awkward things to handle in a camp of soldiers. No disguise can hide them from prying eyes." As a last resort, Zulma resolved on appealing directly to Monseigneur Briand, whom surely Carleton would not deny. There were numerous and very glaring objections to this bold measure, but the impetuous girl over-ruled them all, and, after writing a splendid diplomatic letter, she had concluded ar- rangements to have it safely delivered to the prelate, when an unforeseen event saved her from the consequences of her amiable rashness. As we have said, time had passed briskly on since the ter- rible events of the New Year's Eve. January had glided into February, and March had come with the promise of an unusual- ly early spring. No military events of any importance had oc- curred, at least, none that had any connection with our story, and beyond the circumstances attached to Gary's long illness, there happened nothing which need make us linger over those bleakest months of the winter. Singleton had so far recovered as to be able to walk about, but he remained very feeble, without the opportunity of taking that free exercise necessary to his complete restoration. It was awkward for him to tarry much longer in the house of M, Bel- mont. The seclusion of prison life was interdicted by the humane physician, while there were clear militar}' objections to h 316 THE BASTONNAIS. his being allowed to circulate in the streets of Quebec. For- tunately the doubt was solved by a partial exchange of prison- ers which took place about the middle of March, and in which by a special privilege, Gary was included. The parting from Pauline was very trying. The young man could not explain to himself the regret which it caused him. It grew out of something distinct from and far above his grat- itude for her nursing, and the sense of obligation for the sav- ing of his life which he was conscious he could never dis- charge. In those long afternoons, within the curtained gloom of the sick chamber : during those longer sleepless nights, with their companionship of silence and the sole intercourse of the eyes ; in those frequent conversations made up for the most part of commonplaces, but relieved at times by unbidden revelations of the heart ; in those brief but not infrequent visions of Pauline's beauty brought about by sudden graceful movements of her body, or when she appeared under certain favourable eflfects of the window light ; in those intuitive glimpses of her real character made doubly attractive by its constant element of sadness, and the suspicion of self-sacrifice, Gary had woven about his heart an unconscious chain, the power of which he could not understand until called upon to burst it. Nor did he gather any comfort from Pauline's attitude. When he announced his final departure to her, she heard him calmly, but her quiet was that of mental and physical weakness. There was no energetic self-control in her words or manner ; merely a passive resignation. As she extended her hand, and felt the warm kiss imprinted upon it, she was an object of ex- treme pity, which added to the bitterness of Gary's sorrow. The last farewell had been spoken and the two stood on the steps, at the foot of which a cariole was waiting to convey the released prisoner to his destination among his friends. Gary turned once more to meet the eye of Pauline. As he did so, EBB AND FLOW. 317 to he paused, struck by a sudden thought, and, going back a step or two, said : " Puuline — allow me to call you by this name for perhaps the last time — Pauline, promise me one thing. Take care of your health. I fear that, after I am gone, you will replace me on that sjck-bed, worn out by wearing weeks of watching." Two livid spots burned on Pauline's cheek, and there was a glassiness in her eye. She leaned on the frame of the door for support, but mustered strength enough to answer that she felt no illness and hoped that all would turn out for the best. It was poor comfort ; Gary had, however, to be satisfied with it, and drove away with a very heavy heart. He had not been two hours in the American camp, when he met Batoche. It goes without saying that the meeting was of the heartiest, and, between them, a visit to Pointe-aux-Trembles was planned for that same evening. Zulma having heard of the negotiations for the exchange of prisoners, the coming of Gary was not unexpected, and there was great rejoicing that evening at the Sarpy Mansion, as over one who had been lost and was found, who had died and had risen from the dead. Jii^.. > .J... . ji . ^ ' .;,.' *.. i .^: ,nd ex- 'K'^, ...i.,'i. I : ' \..l - ^ ;...>.'v ' , iry 318 THE RASTONNAIS. X. ON THE BRINK. Another month had passed. With the middle of April the balmy spring-time was at hand. The snow had disappeared from mountain and plain ; the rivers flowed clear and abundant in their channels ;■ the trees were faintly burgeoning, and the heavens palpitated with an atmosphere of genial warmth. The cattle, confined for so many months in the darkness of stalls, lay basking in the sunshine, or trooped to the southern slopes where the young grass was springing. The sheep skipped on the hill sides. The doors and windows of the farm-houses were thrown wide open for a vital freshening. The children played on the stoop. VVhite steam rose from the cracks and fissure of the heated granaries. The barn-yard was vocal with awakening sounds. The dove-cots buzzed with wooings ; the eaves grew populous with swallows, and the thatched roofs of the pens and stables were covered with poultry grubbing for the earliest worm. It was the resurrection of nature, nowhere felt with such keen exhilarance as in arctic latitudes. From the far off mountains, the clouds of murky vapour that lifted and rolled away, leaving the purple summits towering up to receive the first kiss of the rosy dawn and the last embrace of the golden sunset, were emblems of the winter's gloom replaced by that spring-tide brightness which aroused new hopes and a revived interest in the souls of men. The crocus of the glen, the anemone of the prairie, the cress of the sheltered waters, the hum of the first insect, the twitter from the mossy nest, the ON THE BRINK. 319 Lich off led he en at ed he he he murmur of forest streams, were all so many types of human rejuvenescence and animation. There was besides a moral feature to the splendour of the season. The dreary Lenten time was over, with its vigils and fasts, its self-abasement and penitence. The dread Holy Week had gone, with its plaints and laments, its confession of sins and cries for mercy, its darkened windows and stripped altars, its quenched tapers and hushed bells, its fourteen stations of that Via Cruets which rehearses the ineffable history of the Man of Sorrows and the Lady of Pain. The glorious Easter morning was there. Bright vestments gleamed, a thousand lights flamed from the sanctuary, perfumed incense circled heavenward, bearing the thanksgiving of opening hearts. From hillside to valley echoed the music of bells in every turret and steeple, even the bells of the churches and convents in the old beleagured town, that had so often sounded the alarm of battle during the night, taking on a new voice to celebrate the " great day which the Lord hath made." And even as the heavy stone was suddenly flung aside from the sepulchre under the shadow of Golgotha, giving freedom to the Master of the world ; so the pall of winter was torn from the face of nature, and from the hearts of men was removed the burden which, during four long months, had made their torpor somewhat akin to that of the great beasts of the wilderness. It was Easter Monday, a calmer day, but perhaps more enjoyable from the palpable assurance it afforded that the promises of its predecessor were really being tulfiUed. The weather was magnificent, and the whole country resotinded with the voices of men and women preparing for their work. Zulma Sarpy and Gary Singleton walked alone on the bank of the St. Lawrence, directly in front of the mansion. They moved along slowly, frequently stopping to admire the scenery spread out before them, or to engage in earnest conversation. Gary had entirely recovered from his illness, appearing stouter 320 THE BASTONNAIS. I 1 1 y and stronger than ever before. He was clothed in his uniform, a proof that he had resumed active military duty. Zulma was seemingly in her usual health, and as she stood with her grey felt Montespan hat and azure plume, and brilliant cashmere shawl tightly drawn across her shoulders, her beauty shone in its queenliest aspects. No fitter companion for a soldeir could well be pictured. Gary evidently felt this, as his frequent glances of admiration testified, and there were moments when to tht: observer he would have appeared as making the most ardent declarations of love. ; • ^> Such, however, was not the fact. The young people had not reached that limit. Well as they knew each other, often as they had met, exceptional as were the circumstances which had surrounded their intercourse, they, had never gone beyond a certain point of mutual confidence. They had often hovered on the edge, but sudden or unforseen incidents had intervened, and thrown them back instead of advancing their suits. Zulma was sure that Gary loved her, but she had never ascertained that fact by any word of his. Gary could not doubt of Zulma's love for him, as her deeds and writings had eloquently shown, buv she had never given him the oppor- tunity, or he fancied he had never had the opportunity, of obtaining a decisive answer from her lips. On this day, their conversation was earnest and active, but inconsequent. It is often thus in that game of love which is conducted not in concentric circles, but in eccentric orbits. To Gary the situation was becoming pressing, and he told Zulma as much in words which deeply impressed her. He foresaw that the end was approaching, that, with the return of the open weather, military operations must take a decided turn one way or the other. Hejwas sagacious enough to foresee that there could hardly be other than one fatal result — the retreat of the Americans. Arnold had been superseded. Wooster, an aged officer, who had commanded during the winter at I !, ! ON THE BRINK. 321 'f at Montreal, doing a great deal of harm to the American cause by his inefficiency, and his religious intolerance towards the French Canadians, had assumed the control. From him little or nothing was expected with the present army. Reinforcements, although often promised and ostentatiously announced to the garrison through deserters and prisoners, were altogether out of the question, while it was known that, now the St. I^wrence was clear of -ice, a fleet of British vessels might soon be ex- pected for the relief of Quebec. In a fortnight at furthest, Gary foresaw that a crisis must come. All this he confided to Zulma, knowing well that he was violating no dv y in entrust- ing her with the information. The girl was astounded with the intelligence. It broke all her dreams. Her confidence in the success of the Continental arms had been unlimited. Notwithstanding their terrible reverses she never allowed her- self for one moment to 'loubt that the champions of liberty would capture the last Stronghold of British tyranny, and re- store the old reign of French domination in America. She even tried to argue her companion into a reversal of his judgment, but failing in this, her instinct brought her face to face with the further personal result which Cary had altogether eluded. The retreat of the Americans then took a more serious aspect. It implied mutual separation. It came to this — that, after six months of the closest intercourse, hallowed and purified by a series of the most cruel vicissitudes, Cary should be sent flying back to whence he came, while she would be driven again to the solitude of Pointe-aux-Trembles. Could this be ? Should Cary be thus left to his fate ? Would she be able to endure this sudden and enforced loneliness ? Singleton was outspoken and diffuse in his expressions of regret He repeated over and over again that his failure as a soldier wounded his pride and disappointed his hopes, but that his separation from Zulma would prove the most terrible of I' I! 322 THE BASTONNAIS. pangs. Had he foreseen this, he should have sought death at the Intendant's Palace or at Sault-au-Matelot. Death in the house of M. Belmont would have been a relief and a bene- diction. It was in vain that Zulma attempted to comfort him. Her heart was not in it, and she could, therefore, not go beyond the range of commonplaces. Finally, a deep silence fell upon both. They doubtless felt that they ought to go one step further and face a dread corollary. But they did not. Per- haps they durst not. Why not ? Time will tell. The conference ended in these words : " I must return to camp, Mademoiselle. Let us postpone this subject. I have more to say, but require to collect myself." " I too have more to say. Captain." Gary almost started on hearing these words, the tone of which struck him as singular. He looked at Zulma, and found that her face was ashy pale. Her eyes were gazing far away across the St. Lawrence. He fancied — was it only a fancy ? — that she was a little piqued. " Shall we walk back to the mansion ?" he asked almost timidly. " If you please," was the quiet reply. ' . , They advanced slowly across the open field, and up the avenue of trees, speaking little, and that little only on such objects as caught their eye on the way. Unconsciously they were fighting shy of each other. When they reached the greensward in front of the mansion, they paused and suddenly Zulma broke out into a hearty laugh. " We are both children, sir," said she. " I thought you a great soldier and I find you a child. I thought myself a strong-minded woman and I too am a child." And she burst out laughing again. Gary was puzzled, but could not repress a smile. He did not ask her meaning. ON THE BRINK, 323 the Isuch |they the [enly )u a If a ibut i and smiled only because he saw that her old serenity had returned. Just then the setting sun poured through the intervening trees, flooding the green with glory, and lifting the twain as it were in a kind of transfiguration. They were idealized — he appearing like a knight of legendary days, and she a queen of the fairy land- Both were beautiful and both were happy once more. Zulma knocked at the door, and the maid who answered the summons handed her a letter. She opened it hurriedly, glanced over the page, and throwing out her arms, uttered a moan of terror, while her eyes were fixed wildly on the young officer. " What is it, mademoiselle ? What is it ?" " Pauline is dying !" > V 324 THE BASTONNAIS. XI. IN THE VALE OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 1 ■k? Gary's presentiment had come true. After his departure, PauHne struggled agamst her fate for eight or ten days, but had finally to succumb. One evening as she sat alone in her chamber, the forces of nature suddenly gave way, she fell heavily to the floor in a swoon, and was carried to her bed in the arms of her father. The physician treated her at first as for a case of mere physical debility, resultant on her long watches during the eight weeks of Singleton's illness, and the extreme anxiety she had experienced for the safety of her friend. But when the malady remained obstinate to his pre- scriptions, and other insidious symptoms set in, pointing to a gradual decay of the vital energies, he divined that the ill was a mental one which would baffle his art unless he could ascer- tain its cause from the patient herself. Her confession of it would be half the cure. But he did not succeed in- extracting this confession. Pauline did not know 'whrit ailed her. Be- yond a great prostration she did not know that she was sick. She was unconscious of any cause for her present condition. This was her language, but of course the experienced old doc- tor did not believe a word of it. At the same time, however, he was aware that it was quite useless to press his interrogatory further, his knowledge of women being that there is no measuring the length, breadth, and depth of woman's secretive- ness. He therefore consulted M. Belmont. From him he learned that an observable change for the worse in Pauline's manner was coincident with the young American officer's de- IN THE VALE OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 325 parture from his house, and even dated back from the latter days of his convalescence, when his departure was understood to be only a question of time. But beyond this M. Belmont's perspicacity did not go. He averred that he had not noticed any particular attachment between his daughter and her patient. She was nearly always at his bedside, but this was no more than could be expected from a tender-hearted nurse to- wards a poor fellow who had fallen among enemies, and whose life depended upon unremitting care. The young man had throughout acted like a gentleman, was cautious, delicate, re- served, and quite above taking advantages of his position to toy with the feelings of Pauline. Furthermore, the girl had long been devoted to Major Hardinge, and the Major was de- voted to her. Indeed, their relations might be said to be of the tenderest character. Finally, this American officer, unless he was much mistaken, had contracted a strong affection for the daughter of Sieur Sarpy, an affection which was recipro- cated, and he had every reason to believe that Pauline was well acquainted with that circumstance. " Stop there," said the old doctor, taking a pinch of snufF and smiling slyly. " Here is perhaps a clue. Your daughter may have fallen in love with this young rebel — girls cannot help such things, you know — and the knowledge that his heart is turned to another may be precisely the thing that has preyed upon her mind, bringing her to her present pass." " But she and Zulma Sarpy are intimate friends." " So much the worse. Her feelings would be the more acute and the struggle against herself all the keener on that ac- count." " But Major Hardinge ?" " La, la, la ! your Major. She may have loved him till she saw the other man, and then, tnafoi . From a Major to a Captain, from a loyalist to a rebel is rather a descent, M, mon ami 1 But what will you have ? These things cannot be 326 THE BASTONNAIS. controlled. They happen every day. Do you know that she is plighted in any way to this Major ?" " She is not." " How do you know ?" " She told me so." " Under what crr/amstances ? Excuse this freedom, my friend, but witli the confessions of women everything depends upon circumstances. If it is under persuasion, a woman may tell you the truth, for their hearts are good after all. But if it is under compulsion, or threat, or by strategy, they are a match in fencing with the i t:st /." u.;." " It was under a sd s: ^ iuty, and only a few weeks ago. I was annoyed .it Hardinge's jranr.er to me and even to her after the death of thai sevvant ot' '"'h who was killed, you re- member. I told Pauline 1 would *< -eat that conduct if it were repeated, and on the same occasion I asked her whether she had engaged herself to him in any shape or form. Her answer was a simple, straightforward negative, and the child is incapable of untruth." " This is very well. It removes one difficulty. Her mind does not suffer from an> broken pledge towards the Major." " But her love for him must remain." " Not heaven or earth can dominate a woman's .love. It is strong as death, immense as the sea, deep as the abyss, yet a glance of the eye, a wave of the hand, a smile, a toss of the head may change it for ever. Listen, Belmont. Your daugh- ter loves the American officer. She grieves for Hardinge, she grieves for Zulma Sarpy. The diagnosis is complete. She is wasting away in a silent, hidden combat between herself and her friends. And I fear the worse." " You do not mean that Pauline is in danger ?" " It is the duty of friendship to be candid with you. If there is not a complete change, within ten days your daughter will be dead." mind It is yet a )f the laugh- e, she he is if and If [ghter IN THE VALE OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 327 " Gracious heaven !" exclaimed the poor father, his wail of horror sounding through the house and frightening Pauline from her trance. She screamed in her turn. M. Belmont leaped to his feet and was about to rush to her room, when the doctor restrained him. " Do not present yourself in that condition. It might kill her. I will go and pacify her." He did so. After a few minutes, he returned and informed M. Belmont that he was positive of the correctness of his con- jecture, and advised an immediate change of scene for the girl. " A change of scene ? Are you dreaming, doctor ? We are penned up like sheep in this unfortunate town. I am un- der a ban. I can expect no favours. The whole country is deserted or overrun with soldiery. And I must accompany her. Nothing on this earth could separate me from my child. I have lived for her. I will die with her. But oh, doctor, she will not die. Tell me she shall not die." " Then she must leave Quebec." " But, doctor !" " It must be done. It is a case of life and death," A painiul silence ensued. M. Belmont bowed his head in his hands and moaned. " What shall I do ? Who will help me ? Who will intercede for me ?" At this juncture, who should make his appearance but Cap- tain Bouchette ? His presence was a revelation. As soon as he saw him, M. Belmont became calm, and in a few words unfolded his difificulty to him. " Rest easy, my friend," said Bouchette in his hearty way. "There can be no possible obstacle. I will go and see the Gov- ernor at once, and he will not refuse. It is a matter of mercy. General Carleton is the most softhearted of men." Within an hour, Bouchette returned with the necessary per- mits duly signed and sealed. M. Belmont and his daughter were allowed to leave tne own, the reason of their departure 328 THE BASTONNAIS. being fully stated, and a recommendation was added to the good offices of both friends and foes. When Pauline was apprised of this measure, she rallied a little and smiled her contentment, but soon after fell into her habitual lassitude. The doctor, who was there to watch the effect, was not overpleased. He had expected a more marked result, and he almost feared that the relief had come too late. He therefore prescribed that the change should be post- poned for a few days, until he had applied some stimulants and restoratives to the debilitated frame. It was during this critical interval that Zulma received a letter from her brother Eugene repeating the current rumour that Pauline was actually dying. He added, however, that a supreme effort would be made to transport her out of the town. ■H ■ <■' •< ' H IN THE FIERY FURNACE. 329 ■'^HlJ XII. IN THE FIERY FURNACE. On the third day after these occurrences, Pauline had ral- lied to the extent of being able to rise from her bed and sit in an easy chair. She signified to her father and the family physician that she felt sufficient strength to undertake the journey on the following morning. But she set a condition. She must see Roderick Hardinge at once. The young officer had all along been most faithful in his attention, calling morn- ing and evening to visit her, but within the preceding ten or twelve days neither he nor any other stranger had been ad- mitted to her room. When Pauline stated her request, the doctor shook his head. M. Belmont, however, promptly in- terfered with his permission. " You shall see him, my dear. I will send for him im- mediately." Hardinge was on duty at the ramparts, but he obtained a respite without delay, and hurried on his errand. Why did his heart throb as he hurried along the streets ? Why did his hand tremble as he raised the knocker at the well known door. Roderick's instincts were true as are ever those of single mind- ed men. A shadow had been on him for weeks, and he knew that it was now thickening into darkness. Spite of himself, a presentiment possessed his soul that whereas his military pros- pect was brightening, his career advancing, and the success of his cause was being every day more assured, his personal fate was waning, and the dearest hopes of his heart were verging to the gulf of disappointment. He could not formulate in words what the matter was. Pauline was exteriorly always the same w 380 THE BASTONNAIS. I to him, and yet there was a change. Had her [love cooled ? Had it diverted ? Had he done anything to bring about any alteration ? Had his political sentiments in any way affected his conduct towards her ? Had he taken sufficiently into ac- count the anomalous position in which she was placed by her father's stand during the war ? Or were the causes deeper than all this ? And his mind reverted to Gary, to Zulma, to a hun- dred little incidents of the past eventful weeks which his ex. citement magnified into possible determining causes of the boding change. This and much more had passed through his mind before reaching M. Belmont's house. But as he mount- ed the stair leading to the presence of Pauline, a great hope rose above all, and when he reached her room, he was in much the same state of feeling as on ordinary visits. Blessed inter- vention of Providence which gives one last moment of blis8 before the descending stroke of destiny. There is no need to dwell upon this painful interview. The dissection of the heart serves no useful purpose when there is no gleam of consolation to come from it. Pauline was quite strong to go through the ordeal. She was tender, too, and natural — indeed her own self throughout. After speaking of many things relating to former days, omitting nothing that she thought Roderick would like to have recalled, she came at length to the object of the interview. " Do you know, Roddy, why I called for you ?" He replied that he had heard of her contemplated depar- ture and that, while he deeply regretted the cause, he could only rejoice at any step undertaken for the recovery of a health which was dearer to him than his own. Pauline's heart failed her as she heard those words. They pierced like a dagger. Her head became dizzy and she had to fall back in her chair for relief. When she recovered, she held out her hand, murmuring : " Yes, Roddy, I have called upon you to say farewell. J am going and we shall never see each other again," rt I IN THE FIERY FURNACE. 331 and ^g of she le at ley lad she I * " Pauline !" " I am going away to die. I should have Hked to close my eyes in the old house, but for my father's sake, I am willing to depart and make a show for my life. It is useless, however. I shall die." " Dear Pauline, do not speak so. Your case is by no means hopeless. A change of air and scene will revive you. We shall both see better days again." " You may, Roddy, and that shall be my dying prayer, but not I. Alas ! not I." Still holding her white thin hand in both his, Hardinge threw himself at her feet, weeping and beseeching that she would re- call these words of doom. Pauline sat upright in her seat and, in a strangely quavering voice, exclaimed : " Rise, Roderick Hardinge. Do not kneel to me. It is I should be prostrate before you. I called you to say farewell, but there is more. I could not leave without asking your for- giveness." " My forgiveness, Pauline ? What wildness is this ?" " Yes, your forgiveness. I have been false to you." And here the poor girl utterly broke down. She averted her face in her chair and burst into a paroxysm of tears. Roderick rose from the floor. He was in a whirl. Had he heard aright, or was he raving ? He was at length brought to his senses by a soft voice requesting him to be seated and hear all. " I could not help it, Roddy. It was all unconsciously. Had I known what I know now, it would not have happened. It was not I brought the circumstances about. It was all meant for the best by you and me. But the fatality came. It was a terrible revelation to me. That is the blow that has blasted my health and life. But the fault is mine all the same. Your conduct was noble throughout and you did not deserve it. I repeat that the fault is all my own. I am willing to ex 332 THE FUSTONNAIS piate it. I am content to die. My death will end everything. Farewell, Roddy. One parting kiss and your forgiveness." Strange that through this speech, sounding like the music of a broken harp, Roderick remained perfectly cool and collected. With acutest perception he understood everything now. The black cloud was rent and light poured down upon him. It was a light from heaven, for it warmed his soul to heroism. " Pauline," he said in gentlest accents, " the spasm is past and I can speak to you, as of old. My words shall be few, be- cause I see that this effort has spent you. You have done an injustice to yourself and me. My forgiveness, dearest ? You have none to ask. You have done me no wrong. I had no right over you. We have known each other for long years and have loved each other ?" " Ah ! Roddy, ah ! how well !" sweet and low, as waters murmuring over pebbles. i '•?,.. " Yes, how well, Pauline. But love is not our own. It is disposed of by a higher will. We had hoped that it might end in something else — at least such was my hope." " And mine, Roddy." . • ^ " But if this may not be, we must bow to the al nighty pow- er. Man is not the arbiter of his destiny. False to me Pau- line ? No truer heart ever breathed the air of heaven. You could not be false to any one. Oh ! dearest, withdraw all these bitter words. Remember me, remember your old friend. May the blessing of God attend you. Go forth into a broader atmosphere, and amid brighter scenes to recover your health and that beauty which I have adored. Farewell, Pauline, fare- well." She heard him not. The poor shattered spirit, overcome by exhaustion, had drifted away into a merciful oblivion. He kissed her on the forehead and glided out of the room. At the door he met M. Belmont, whose hand he silently clasped. Then he stepped out into the world, a new man, purified as if by fire. I RODERICK S LAST BATTLE. 333 / pow- Pau- You all iend. lader ialth (fare- by He At )ed. IS if XIII. RODERICK S LAST BATTLE. The next morning dawned bright and balmy. At an early hour, a closed carriage slowly approached the massive arch of St. John's Gate, accompanied by four or five persons on foot* among whom were Captain Bouchette, the venerable physician of the Belmont family, and Lieutenant-Governor Cramahd. The presence of the latter personage was p high honour to his old friend Belmont. When the vehicle stopped, and while the papers were being perused by the officer on guard, a final in- terview took place between the members of this little circle. It was a moment of trying emotion ' > all, and there were tears in every eye as the last embrace was given. On a high embankment, level with the wall, and command- ing a view of the gate, rose the solitary figure of Roderick Hardinge. Leaning on his sword, he stood in the young grass, under the budding boughs of a walnut tree. He had waited there till the carriage came. He would wait till it rolled away through the valley. There was a terrible moment, as it linger- ed before the guard-house, when he would have rushed down to plead his great love once more at the feet of Pauline. Per- haps at that critical time he might win his suit. Perhaps she was waiting for him and wondering in pain why he did not come. But, spite of his anguish, Roderick retained mastery over his soul. He checked this intention, feeling with cruel vividness that a sacrifice, to be a sacrifice, must be carried out to the end. Their last farewell was on yesterday. She had distinctly wished it thus. He would not disturb the vision of their parting — the closed eyes, reversed form, pallid cheek, and 334 THE BASTOWNAIS. appearance of helpless misery. She too had suffered. He would not make her suffer more. And there was that kiss on the burning forehead. He could never forget that, nor would he allow impressions to intervene and possibly efface it. So the noble fellow stood in the young grass, leaning on his sword, immoveable, stem, holding his forehead up against fate, and silently fighting a battle with himself compared to which the clash of battalions and the thunder of ordnance were mere child's play. And he conquered. A shadow of a smile flut- tered over his lips as he resigned his last hope, and closed the door for ever to the cherished prospect of the efflorescence of love into fruition. / <■ that moment th* friends of M. Belmont stepped aside, and, as the door closed, Roderick caught a glimpse of Pau- line's dress. His imagination at once constructed the picture. She lay recumbent upon pillows, with her father at her side. Her face was pale, and her lips drawn down, but her eyes were animated with a glow that was a mixture of inquiry and regret. Was she really expecting Roderick ? Alas ! who can doubt it ? She knew him too well not to feel that he must be some where in her neighbourhood, and the unerring instinct had its magneric influence upon her. At length the carriage rolled away, passing under the great shadow of the gate, and turned into the valley, leaving' the old town behind. As the portals came together with a crash, and the heavy chains rattled, the echo of doom simultaneously smote the heart of her that was going and of him that was left behind. I'he beautiful past was over — and what was to re- place it ? A moment later, at a sharp angle of the road, Pau- line turned her head on the cushion, and she saw him standing under the walnut tree. The vision was brief, as the horses took a sudden bound forward, but the poor girl had time to raise herself on her elbow and faintly wave a white handker- chief. Roderick beheld the token, an^ forgetting everything Roderick's last battle. 335 in the enthusiasm of the moment, rushed forward to the brink of the parapet. He would have leaped down in the face of a thousand pointed bayonets and dashed through the serried ranks of foes, but, alas ! as he gazed once more, the vehicle had disappeared forever in the windings of the vale. " Too late, too late !" exclaimed the poor fellow, turning on his heel and plunging the point of his sword into the tufted grass. " She is gone, never to return. Farewell to all my dreams of happiness, to all my hopes and aspirations. What is glory to me now ? Why should I live to gather fame ? Who is there now that will reap my laurels and wear them on snowy forehead for my sake ? Oh, fate, oh, fate !" And he walked av'ay through solitary lanes till he reached his quarters, utterly broken down in heart. The whole fore noon he lay on his iron bed, oblivious of all the world and steeped in hiz own tremendous sense of dereliction. It was in vain that the golden spring sun streamed through his win- dows rocking the room in waves of splendour. The glad sounds of voices, in the Square, of men and women enjoying the beautiful weather in promenades, were unheeded by him. The great voice of cannon from the Citadel, answering some hostile movement of the enemy, was powerless to arouse him from his torpor. There is nothing so terrible to encounter as the last phases of a moral crisis, nothing so painful as to realize that one has yet two or three points to gain of that tatal resig- nation which he thought he had mastered. The cup of poison may be dashed off in a gulp of rapid determination, but it is the slow drinking of the dregs that is revoltingly loathsome. Thus Roderick had to go through the ultimate stages of the combat once more and force himself to face the dread reality so that he should never again beguile himself with a single hope. This was really the situation as he understood it. He finally wrought himself up to that supreme point, and leaping from his bed, exclaimed : 336 THE BASTONNAIS. " Where all is comfortless, there is at least this comfort. I had her life in my hands. By acting as I did, I have saved that life. This reflection shall be the prop of my misery." He then composed his dress hastily, and walked out head- long to his regiment. " > •■•■'■ "MMI MH rt. I saved »> head- AT VALCARTIER. 337 XIV. AT VALCARTIER. The ubiquitous Batoche was at a point, out of range of the garrison's guns, to meet the carriage. Although not communi- cated with directly by anybody, he knew all the particulars of M. Belmont's coming, and stood at the door of the vehicle, as if it was a matter of course. After mutual greetings and in- quiries, he advised M. Belmont to drive out to Montmorenci. " My cabin is small, but I have made it comfortable," said he. " There our sick child will have solitude, pure air, and a beautiful scenery. It is just the place." " No, Batoche, thank you," responded M. Belmont, decid- edly. The old man raised his brows in surprise, but evidently reading into the motive of the refusal, he did not insist. " Then go to Pointe-aux-Trembles. It is Zulma's most pressing invitation. If she had known you were coming to- day, she would be here herself to make it." It was now Pauline's turn to speak. " No, no, not there," she said, shaking her head and colour- ing deeply. " I am most anxious to see Zulma. Indeed, I must see her, but not at her house." Again, Batoche did not urge his suggestion. " My destination was Valcartier," rejoined M. Belmont, " and I see no reason to change my mind. Pauline needs ab- solute rest. She must be away from the noise of the world. Valcartier is the place — fifteen miles from the town, in the heart of a splendid landscape. We will go there." " I will go with you," said Batoche. 338 THE BASTONNAIS. The long journey, so far from fatiguing the invalid, proved a source of revival. The roads were good, the weather grew warmer with the flight of the hours, and the conversation of the old solitary was sparkling with amusement. He played with the situation like a consummate artist. He ranged over all sorts of topics, not studiously avoiding the illness of Pauline, or the names of Zulma and Gary, lest that might create suspicion, but touching upon them only rarely and incidentally, and as if they were matters of the least importance. The consequence was that he put Pauline into something like good humour. He made her smile faintly at several of his stories, and when she would relapse in the list- lessness either of debility or retrospective thoughts, he would recall the light to her eye and the colour to her cheeks by some anecdote of stirring adventure. When after easy stages, the party reached Valcartier, Pauline was sufficiently strong to step out of the carriage, with the support of her father and Batoche. A proper house was chosen at a little distance from the hamlet, and all the arrangements were made for the convenience of the sojourners. Batoche remained with them two days, endearing himself still more to both, if that were possible, by his kind, in- telligent attentions. When he was on the point of departure, Pauline said to him : " Do not tell anybody that I am here." " But I thought you said you wanted to see Zulma ?" " Not now. A little later." "Very well. I will not tell anybody. I did not intend to." And he smiled in his peculiar way. Pauline could not help smiling a little too, seeing clearly that the old wizard knew all. Batoche's pleasant manner deserted him, however, on the way, and he thus discoursed with himself, as he trudged along: " I could not insist on Montmorenci or Pointe-aux-Trembles, t itend not lizard the )les, AT VALCARTIER. 339 < I but Valcartier is a mistake. Pauline will not find there what she seeks. 1 have promised silence and will keep it. Indeed, I did not mean to divulge her retreat, for it is no business of a rough old fellow like me to interfere in the affairs of young people. But all the same Pauline's solitude must be found out, and I have no doubt it will be found out. If it is not, the poor child will pine and perish there just as certainly as she would have done within the walls of Quebec." These previsions almost at once entered upon their ful- filment. Scarcely had Batoche turned his back on Valcartier, than an overpowering feeling of loneliness fell upon Pauline. The improvement which the excitement of the journey and the contpany of the aged soldier had induced disappeared im- mediately. M. Belmont's hopefulness was replaced by a new alarm, which was increased when he discovered that there was no physician in the village. This contingency he had not foreseen, having been assured by his own family doctor that Pauline, with the exception of a few tonics and restoratives which he furnished, needed no other treatment than rest and a change of air. In his anxiety M. Belmont called in an Indian doctor from the neighbouring village of Lorette, equal, he was told, to any member of the profession in the Province. The Huron, after visiting the patient, took M. Belmont aside and said : — " The pain is here," pointing to the heart. "The Great Spirit alone can cure it." Was it fated then that the gentle Pauline must die ? .ii 340 THE BASTONNAIS XV. FRIENDSHIP STRONGER THAN LOVE. Ever since Zulma had received her brother's letter re- ferring to the critical state of Pauline, she had been in constant solicitude, which was only partially relieved by the intelligence of the projected departure from the town. The concern of Gary Singleton was no less. Indeed, it was of another nature and far more profound. When, at the door of the Sarpy mansion, he heard the words from Zulma's lips, " Pauline is dying," he sprang into his saddle and rode at full speed to headquarters, where he met Batoche, whom he instructed to use every means to communicate directly w'th M. Belmont. Through the old man he heard daily of the phases of the disease. But he was considerably surprised, and not a little annoyed that the latter had not apprized him of the issue of Pauline from the gates, and had been away two days without telling him of it. Gary and Zulma had many conversations on the subject of their mutual friend. The young officer opened his heart without reserve, having no conscience that he had anything to conceal, and relying implicitly upon Zulma as the person, of all the world, in whom he ought to confide, and from whom he might expect sympathy. This simplicity for a while appeared quite natural to Zulma, because she too was simple, and had followed all along the promptings of her heart, without any alloy of selfishness, or any suspicion of painful consequences. Notwithstanding the singular con- versation which had taken place between them on the banks of the St. Lawrence, as has been recorded, their trust in each other had not slackened in the least, and while Zulma never FRIENDSHIP STRONGER THAN LOVE. 341 t I feared for a moment that Gary might be lost to her, he had never gone into such self analysis as could have shown that a separation from her was within the range of possibilities, with- out any fault on his part, or any means on her part to avert the stroke. This condition of mind in Gary is easily comprehensible of him as a man and a soldier. Women credit men with craft and cunning in the ways of love. Such is not always the case. Oftentimes they are single-minded, and that very selfishness which is imputed to them is the motive that drives them head- long to the possession of the coveted object, regardless of the obstacles, possible and positive, which the cooler instinct of the woman generally observes. Zulma's state was more singular and needs a word of explanation. If we have suc- ceeded in painting this character, the reader must have an impression of nobility free from all trace of meanness, and of self-willed force capable of the loftiest generosity. Zulma was a spoiled child, but this defect never dwindled to silliness. None understood better than she the relative fitness of things. There was never a speck of hypocrisy in her composition, and not the slightest shade of suspicion. Her character was diaphanous. She could check her thoughts and hold her tongue as few of her sex at her age could do, and, in the tournament of conversation with men, could manage the foils of reticence or half meanings as the best, but the founda- tion of her nature was truth, simpleness, and honour free from all guile. Our female readers will understand us fully if we say in one word that Zulma was in no sense a coquette. She was always sincere, even in her by-play, which was the secret of her power and ascendancy. This being so, the reader will be prepared for the statement that she never really supposed the peculiar relations of Gary with Pauline could affect her. Jealousy she had not, because she was incapable of it, but even if she had not been above this most diabolical of female vices, she could not have felt it; because she did not realize that there 342 THE BASTONNAIS. u was any occasion for it. Hence when Gary spoke to her with deepest concern of Pauline's illness, of his fears of the result,and of his desire to do all in his power to avert the blow which threatened her, she entered fully into his spirit, and intensified his grief by the warmth of her own sympathies. And when, on hearing of Pauline's departure from Quebec, he declared he would follow her for leagues upon leagues — anywhere — to minister to her salvation, it was with spontaneous cordiality that Zulma added she would go with him and do all that was possible to save the dearest of her friends. It is, therefore, no wonder that she, as well as Gary, was vexed at Batoche for not revealing the place of the sick girl's retreat. During three whole days, the old man was inexorable. Neither the young woman's coaxing, nor the soldier's serious displeasure could move him. His sole answer was : — " Pauline will see no one but Mademoiselle Sarpy, and that only later." " But I Wi7/ see her," Gary would say,emphasizing the resolve with hand and foot. " Then, find her, Gaptain," was the taunting reply. It was some comfort to their mutual anxiety, however, that Batoche assured them of their friend's improved health. But this situation could not last. At the end of the third day, the old soldier ran out to Valcartier, and was so alarmed at the relapse which he witnessed, that he almost immediately returned to quarters. Gary at once divined the truth from his altered appearance. " Batoche, I command you to tell me where she is." " Patience, Gaptain," was the reply, delivered in accents of sorrow and pity. " Your command is just and shall be obeyed. You have a right to see Pauline, and you shall see her. But Mademoiselle Zulma must go first. You will follow. I hasten to Pointe-aux-Trembles." Zulma required no lengthy summons. She ordered the i i FRIENDSHIP STRONGER THAN LOVE. 343 wever, ilth. third irmed iiately im his Its of iyed. But sten \ the caliche to be brought out at once,and with Batoche,drove rapidly to Valcartier. What a meeting ! Never had Zulma so much need of her self-possession. If she had yielded to her impulse, she would have filled the house with screams. It was not Pauline that lay before her — only her shadow. It was not the living, laughing girl whom she had known — the stamp of death was set upon every fair lineament. She bent sofdy down, laid her head beside the marble brow upon the pillow, folded her arms around Pauline's neck, and clasped her in a long, yearning embrace. Then they communed together, almost mouth to mouth, with that miraculous sweetness which is God's divinest gift to women. Pauline revived for the occasion. She was so happy to see Zulma. She, that had wished to die alone and forgotten — it was almost the dawn of resurrection to have her dearest friend beside her now at length. All was gone over, quietly, gradually, amid pauses of tears, and the interruption of kisses, yet so rapidly that, before half an hour had elapsed, Zulma had completely made up her mind. Brushing back the moist brown hair from the throbbing temples of the sick girl, she rose serene, majestic, with the light of a great resolution in her eyes, and the placidity of heroism on her beautiful features. Stepping out of the room she called Batoche. " Take my caliche. Drive to the camp, and bring back Captain Singleton, at once. Tell him he must see Pauline be- fore the set of sun, and that I desire it." The old man comprehended and did not require to be told twice. " Good," he exclaimed. " That is a grand girl. She un- derstood it all at a glance. What I could not do, she has done. Pauline will now be saved. Poor Pauline !" For three hours the. friends were together, hand clasped in hand. Words were spoken that were full of ineffable tender- ness. There were intervals of silence no less replete with hap- piness. There was a mutual language of 'thorough under- 344 THE BASTONNAIS. Standing in the eyes as well as on the lips. Zulma's theme was of hope. She quickly reached that point where she dismissed the idea of death and insisted on life for the mutual enjoy- ment of the twain. Not for Pauline's sake, but for her own, now that she knew what she knew, she saw it was necessary that death should be robbed of its sting and the grave resign its victory. Did Pauline acquiesce ? She said not so — how could she dare, she that was dying without hope ?-— but there was a lambent gleam in her sunken eye, as of a ray of the future's sunshine playing upon it. The afternoon passed softly, gently. The sun was gliding behind the trees and the long shadows crept over the valley faintly dimming the window panes. The holy hour of twilight had come. The angelus bells Irom the turret of the distant village church echoed sweetly on the tranquil air, and Zulma knelt by the bedside to murmur the Ave Maria. When she rose, she stood and listened. There were carriage wheels at the door. " Do you hear ?" she said. Pauline opened great bewildered eyes and her features be- came pinched. Then turning rapidly, she hid her face in the pillow, sobbing convulsively. " Oh, Zulma, this is too much. Why did you do it ? It must not be. Oh, let me die." She essayed to say more but tears choked her utterance. " It is God's will !" whispered Zulma in calm, clear accents, still standing above her with a look of inspiration. The invalid turned back on her pillow, cast an agonizing glance of gratitude upon her friend, and holding out her hand murmured. " Heaven bless you, dearest." THE HOUR O-f GLOOM. 346 XVI. THE HOUR OF GLOOM. ? It iizing hand The interview with Gary Singleton was not delayed a mo- ment. Both he and Pauline desired that Zulma should be present, but she imagined a pressing pretext and glided out of the chamber. As she did so, her face was irradiated. Meet- ing Batoche in the passage, near the entrance to the house, she threw herself upon his neck and burst into silent tears. " Courage, mademoiselle," he said in a pathetic voice. ." You have been magnificent, and shall have your reward. Courage." " It is over, Batoche. A momentary weakness which I could not resist. I am happier now than I ever was in my life." Batoche looked at her with admiration and whispered : — " There was only one way of saving her life." " Yes, and we have adopted it." " You have adopted it, not I. Yours is all the merit and you shall be blessed for it." The two then went into the room of M. Belmoni to keep him company, while he awaited with resignation the result of the conference in the sick chamber. We may not dwell upon the details of the conference. Suffice it to know that it was consoling in the extreme to the invalid and supremely painful to the young officer. At sight of the wasted figure before him, Gary lost all control over his feel- ings. He remembered only one thing — that this girl had saved his life. He saw but one duty — that he must save hers at whatever cost to himself and others. The long watches of X 346 THE BAST0NNA1S. those eight weeks at the Belmont house came back to him, the tireless attention, the gentle nursing, the sweet words of comfort. Her illness was the result of his. That was enough. Pleased as Pauline was to hear his words of gratitude and declarations of devotion, she gave him no encouragement to believe that they would have the effect of restoring her either in body or mind. The poor girl shuddered at the alternative in which she was placed. Zulma was so near — only a wall separating them. Roderick was so far — the ramparts of Que- bec seeming to have receded beyond an infinite horizon. Death was at hand. Why recoil from it ? Why not hail its deliverance with a benison ? Not in words did Pauline communicate these thoughts to Gary. With all her resolution she would have been utterly un- able to do so. But he gathered her meaning only too well, the acuteness of his own suffering making him read on the suffering face of the patient the recondite thoughts which, on ordinary occasions, he would never have been able to fathom. But, in spite of all this, Pauline was happy in the simple pres- ence of Gary. There were moments when she scarcely heed- ed what he said, so intent was she in the enjoyment of the as- surance that he was really once more at her side. Tf she could have had this boon indefinitely, without the need of pledges or protestations, without the necessity of recalling the past, or facing the future, she would have been content, nor asked for anything beyond. This dream of a tranquil passivity was ' fatal symptom of completely broken energies and proxii decay. But even this dream had to be dispelled. An he r had gone by and darkness had filled the room, an admonition to Gary that he must forthwith return to camp. When he in- formed the invalid of this she moaned piteously, and it was minutes before he could soothe her. Indeed she was not re- conciled until he promised that he would be with her again as soon and as often as he could tear himself away from his mili. ? to him, words of s enough, tude and ement to »er either Itemative ily a wall s of Que- ; horizon. It hail its oughts to utterly un- too well, id on the which, on to fathom, pie pres- ;ely heed- of the as- she could ►ledges or past, or Lsked for ity was roxir '^ An h. r imonition in he in- [d it was not re- lagain as Ihis mili- THE HOUR OF GLOOM. 347 tary duties. Before leaving he leaned over her, and, while pressing her hand, imprinted a reverent kiss upon her forehead. He did it naturally, and as if by duty. She received the token without surprise, as if she expected it. It was the seal of love. The caliche was waiting at the door, and Gary mounted it, after the exchange of only a few words with M. Belmont and Zulma. He was preoccupied and almost sullen. Batoche took a seat beside him and they drove away into the darkness. For nearly two-thirds of the route not a syllable passed be- tweett the two. The stars came out one by one like laughing nymphs, the moon sailed up ja.;rntily, the low sounds of the night were heard on every side. Batoche was too shrewd to speak, but his eyes glared as he conducted the horse. His companion was buried in his thoughts. Finally the freshening breeze showed that they were approaching the broad St. Law- rence, a faint illumination floated over Quebec from its hun- dred lights, and the camp-fires of the Continental army broke out here and there in the distance. They reached a rough part of the road where the horse was put on the walk. Batoche," said Gary hoarsely. Yes, Gaptain," was the calm reply. " The end is at hand." .. "Alas! sir." " You see those fires yonder ? They will soon be extinguish, ed. The English fleet is coming with reinforcements, and we cannot withstand them. We shall have to flee. But before we go, I trust we shall fight, and if we fight, I hope I shall be killed. I am sick of disappointment and defeat. I want to die." These words were spoken in such a harrowing way, that for once, I' toche was thrown off his guards and could answer nothing not a word of argiunent, not an expression of com- fort, 'ipping his horse to his utmost speed, he muttered grimly " Yo i will not die, but I " (( u 348 THE BASTONNAIS. XVII. THE GREAT RETREAT. A few days passed and the month of May was ushered in. Gary Singleton was right in foretelling that stirring events were at hand. A crisis intervened in the siege of Quebec. Since the disappearance of the snow the Ameiicans had given some symptoms of activity. There was more frequent firing upon the town, and feints were made with ladders and ropes for es- calades at different points. An armed schooner, named the Gasp^, captured during the autumn, was prepared as a fire-ship to drift down and destroy the craft that was moored in the Gul-de-Sac, at the eastern extremity of Lower Town. Other vessels destined tor a similar service were also made ready. At nine o'clock on the night of the 3rd of May, the attempt was actually made. One of the fire-ships turned out from Levis, and advanced near to the Quebec shore without molestation, the garrison imagining that it was a fyiend. Success seemed almost within reach, when on being hailed, and not answering, guns were fired at her from the Grand Battery over the Cape. At this signal that they were discovered, the crew at once set a match to the combustible material on board, and sent the vessel drifting directly for the Cul-de-Sac. A moment more and she would have reached that coveted spot, and the ship- ping, with the greater part of Lower Town, would have been consumed. But the tide having ebbed about an hour, the cur- rent drove her back, notwithstanding that the north-east wind was in her favour. This failure was a terrible disappointment to the Americans. It was their last stroke against Quebec. Had the attempt succeeded, the army intended to attack the town THE GREAT RETREAT. 349 hered in. ents were c. Since ven some ring upon 2S for es- amed the a fire-ship ed in the n. Other eady. At empt was )m Levis, Dlestation, seemed inswering, the Cape, once set i sent the ent more :he ship- ave been r, the cur- wind was itment to c. Had the town during tlie confusion which the conflagration would necessarily have created, and the onslaught would have been a terrible one, because they were goaded to despair by their continuous ill- success, at the same time that they knew it was their final chance prior to the arrival of the British fleet, which was every day expected. That fleet did not long delay its appearance. At six o'clock, on the morning of the 6th May, a frigate hove in sight turning Point Levis. The whole American army witnessed her trium- phant entrance. The ramparts of the town were lined with spectators to hail the welcome sight. Drums beat to arms, the church bells clanged, and an immense shout arose that was re- echoed from the Plains of Abraham across the river to the Isle of Orleans. It was the acclamation of deliverance for the be- sieged, the knell of final defeat for the besiegers. The frigate was well named the Surprise, and she carried on board two companies of the 29th regiment with some marines, the whole amounting to two hundred men, who were immediately landed. She was speedily followed by other war vessels containing more abundant reinforcements. At noon of the same memorable day, the garrison, supported by the new arrivals, formed in different divisions, issued through the gates, and moved slowly as far as the battle field of St. Foye, where Chevalier Levis won his brilliant, but barrtn victory over Murray, on the 28th April, 1760. Carleton, now that he was backed by a oower from the sea, shook off* his inaction, and determined to deliver combat to the Continentals. But beyond a few pickets who fired as they fell back, the latter were no- where to be seen. They had begun a precipitate retreat, leav- ing all their provisions, artillery, ammunition, and baggage be- hind them. Their great campaign was over, ending in dis- astrous defeat. They endeavoured to make a stand at Sorel, being slightly reinforced, but the English troops which pressed on under Carleton and Burgoyne, the commander of the fresh 1 350 THE BASTONNAIS. arrivals, forced them to continue their flight. They were obHged to abandon their conquest at Montreal, Chambly, St. Johns, and Isle-aux-Noix, and did not deem themselves safe, till they reached the head of Lake Champlain. Then they paused and rallied, forming a strong army under Gates, and one year later, wreaked a terrible revenge upon this same Bur- goyne, who had superseded Carleton, by capturing his whole army at Saratoga, thus gaining the first real step towards secur- ing the independence of the Colonies. Arnold fought like a hero at that battle, giving proof of qualities which must have insured his success at Quebec if the fates had not been against him. -iA*. 'IT, "' i t •a CONSUMMATUM EST. 361 XVIII. CONSUMMATUM EST. The flight of the Con^irjntals caused the utmost excitement, not only in Quebec, but throughout the surrounding country. They had so long occupied the ground, that their sudden de- parture created a great void. Those who were opposed to them broke out into acclamations, while the large number who sympathized with them were thrown into consternation. Bad news always travels fast. Long before sunset of that day, the event was known at Valcartier, and on the little cottage c pied by M. Belmont, the intelligence fell like a thundei ^'n. It was useless for Zulma to attempt mastering her feelings, vihc rushed out into the garden, and there delivered herself to her agony. She had not foreseen this catastrophe, had never deemed anything like it possible. Now he was gone, gone in headlong flight, without a word of warning, without a farewell. After what had been happening within the preceding few days, a single, final interview would have helped to seal her resigna- tion and reconcile her to her fate. But now even this boon was denied her. It need not be said that M. Belmont's grief was also extreme, as we know the many reasons — personal and political, on ac- count of himself, his countrymen, and his daughter — which he had to desire the success of the American cause. It was in vain for him to attempt concealing his emotion in the presence of Pauline. She immediately divined that something extraor- dinary had happened. Gary's behaviour during the last of his several visits had been so peculiar as to leave the impression that he was under the shadow of impending calamity. Only 352 THE BASTONNAIS. I the evening previous, as he bade her farewell, his manner was strange, almost wild. He was tender and yet abrupt. If she had not known that he was dominated by a terrible sorrow, she would have feared that he was yielding to anger. He protest- ed his eternal gratitude. He poured out his love in glorious words. He stood beautiful in the grandeur of his passion. And yet there was an indefinite something which made his de- parture painfully impressive to Pauline. His last words were : — " If you will not consent to live, Pauline, there is only one thing for me to do. You understand ?" She understood perfectly well. The words had been ring- ing in her ears ever since, and now from her father's appearance the suspicion flashed upon her that perhaps they were fulfilled. Was Gary dead ? Had he thrown away his life in battle ? The doubt could brook no delay, and, gathering all her strength, she abruptly interrogated M. Belmont. " No, not dead, my child, but — " v " But what, father ? I beg you to tell me all." " They are gone. The siege is raised. It was unforeseen, and done in the utmost precipitation." , " And he too is gone !" "Alas! my dear." " That is as bad as death." And uttering a piercing shriek, Pauline fell back in a swoon upon her pillow. The cry was heard by Zulma in the garden, and she rushed back into the room. The alteration in the face of the patient was so terrible that ZulmL -as horror-stricken. Pauline lay absolutely as if dead. No breathing was audible, and her pulse had apparently ceased to beat. Restoratives were applied, but failed to act. Although they did not ex- change a word together,both Zulma and M. Belmont thought that it was the end. With the setting sun, and the coming of darkness, an awful silence fell upon the house, through which CONSUMMATUM EST. 353 alone, by the terrified listeners, was faintly heard the rustling of the wings of doom. Then the tempest arose, fit accompaniment for such a scene. Thunder and lightning filled the sky. A hurricane swept the landscape, with a voice of dirge, while the rain poured down in torrents. For long hours Zulma knelt beside the inanimate form. M. Belmont sat at the head of the bed with the rigidity of a corpse. But for the ever Watchful Eye over that stricken house, who knows what ghastly scene the morning sun might witness ? Through the storm, the sound of hoofs was heard, followed soon after by a noise at the door. Zulma turned to M. Bel- mont with a sweet smile, while he awoke from his stupor with indications of fear. " Heavens! are our enemies so soon upon us?" he exclaimed, rising. " Never fear," said Zulma, rising also. " It is our friends." She went to the door and admitted Gary Singleton and Batoche. They were both haggard and travel-stained. It required but a glance to reveal the situation to them. The young officer, after pressing the hand of Zulma and M, Belmont, stood for several minutes gazing at the insensible Pauline. The old man did the same at a little distance behind. Then the latter gently touched the former upon the shoulder. He turned and the four held a whispered conference for a few moments, the speakers being Gary and Zulma, both earnest and decided, especially Zulma. A conclusion was soon reached, for M. Belmont hurriedly quitted the room. During his brief absence, while the two men resumed their watches beside the couch, Zulma carried a little table near the head, covered it with a white cloth, set upon it two lighted candle- sticks, and a little vessel of holy water in which rested a twig of cedar. She did this calmly, methodically, with mechanical dexterity, as if it had been an ordinary household duty. Never 354 THE BASTONNAIS. once did she raise her eyes from her work, but, from the increased light in the room, one might have noticed that there was a spot of fiery red upon either cheek. Cary, however absorbed in his meditations, could not help casting a look upon her as she moved about, while Batoche, although he never raised his head, did not lose a single one of her actions, "who can tell what passed in the bosoms of the three, or how much of their lives they lived during these moments ? Zulma's ministrations had scarcely been concluded, when M. Belmont returned with the parish priest of Valcartier, a venerable man, whose smile, as he bowed to all the members of the group, and took in the belongings of the room, was as inspiring as a spoken blessing. Its influence too must have extended to the entranced Pauline, for, as he approached her side, and sprinkled her with hyssop, breathing a prayer, she slowly opened her eyes and gazed at him. Then turning to the lighted tapers, and the snowy cloth, she smiled, saying : " It is the extreme unction. Monsieur le Cure ! I thank you." The old priest, with that consummate knowledge of the world and the human heart, which his long pastorate had given him, approached nearer, and addressed her in a few earnest words, explaining everything. Then he stepped aside, and revealed the presence of Cary. The two lovers folded each other in a close embrace, and thus, heart against heart, they communed together for a few moments. At the close, Pauline called for Zulma, who was on her knees, at the foot of th6 bed and in shadow. The meeting was short, but passionate. Finally, one word which Zulma spoke had a magical effect, and the three turned their faces towards the assistants, smiling through their tears. The ceremony was brief. There in that presence, at that solemn hour, the hands were joined, the benediction pro- nounced, and Cary and Pauline were man and wife. The irom the lat there however ok upon le never IS. 'who )w much d, when artier, a members 1, was as lUSt have ched her ayer, she jming to ying : I thank of the lad given earnest Ide, and ied each |art, they Pauline the bed isionate. 1 effect, sraihng I at that [on pro- The CONSUMMATUM EST. 365 priest producing the parish register, the names of the principals and witnesses were signed. Zulma wrote hers in a large steady hand, but a tear, which she could not restrain, fell upon the letters and blurred them. " Rest now, my child," said the priest, as he took his departure. Pauline, exhausted by fatigue and emotion, immediately relapsed into slumber, but every trace of pain was gone, and her regular breathing showed that she was enjoying a normal repose. Then Batoche, approaching Gary, silently pointed to the clock. " Alas ! yes," said the latter, turning to M. Belmont and Zulma, " it is now midnight, and the last act of this drama must be performed. Our camp is thirty miles away, and the night is terrible. I rode here to accomplish one duty. I must ride back to fulfil another. It is a blessing she sleeps. You will tell her all when she wakes." He continued in fervid words recommending Pauline to both Zulma and M. Belmont. He protested that nothing short of his loyalty to his country could induce him to go away. Had his army been victorious, he might have resigned service and remained with Pauline and her friends. But now, es- pecially that it was routed, he could not abandon his colours, and he knew that Pauline would despise him if he did. To- morrow they would resume their flight. In a few days they would be out of Canada. When he had finished speaking, he threw his arms around the neck of Zulma, thanking her for her devotion, declaring that he would never forget her, and that he would always be at her service. " I confide Pauline to you," he said. " To no other could I so well entrust her. She saved my life. Let us both be united in saving hers. She has promised me that she will now try to live. With your help, I am certain that she will do so. 356 THE BASTONNAIS It is my only comfort on my departure, together with the assurance that you will always be her friend and mine." Batoche, too, had a word with Zulma. He predicted the reward of Heaven upon her abnegation, sent remembrances to his friends, and, in most touching language, begged her to as- sume the care of little Blanche, to whom he bequeathed a tearful blessing. When this was accomplished, he told M. Belmont that Blanche knew the secret of his casket and would reveal it to him. Then the final separation took place. Gary and Batoche left the house together. The next morning the former had joined his companions on their retreat, while the latter lay prone on the wet grass, at the foot of the Montmorenci Falls — dead. The lion-like heart was broken. It could not survive the ruin of its hopes. ■,i :■(,.' :'i'''* tl .' .'-"' ;|r FINAL QUINTET. 357 XIX. FINAL QUINTET. Eight years had elapsed. It was the summer of 1784. The great war of the Revolution was over and peace had been signed. Gary Singleton, having laid down his arms, proposed to travel for rest and recuperation. His first visit was to Canada in the company of his wife, and of M. Belmont, who desired to return to Quebec, and there spend the evening of his days. Having accompanied Pauline to Maryland im- mediately after her recovery — which had been very protracted — he had a led a tranquil life there, but now that age was telling, and that he had no further solicitude about the safety of Gary, nostalgia came hard upon him. It is needless to say that the journey was a most agreeable one. All the old places were revisited, all the old faces that had survived were seen once more. But the chief attraction for both Gary and Pauline was Zulma and Roderick. What had become of them? The latter remained in the army for a year after the deliver- ance of Quebec. Carrying his great disappointment in his heart, he joined the expedition of Burgoyne, and, of course, shared its fate at Saratoga. But as Morgan was in that battle, where he caused the death of the brave English General Eraser, and Gary was with him, Roderick received at the hands of the latter the same treatment which he had extended to him, after the battle of Sault-au-Matelot. Whereas all Burgoyne's men were kept prisoners in the interior of the country, Hardinge procured his liberation through the influence of Singleton with Morgan, and returned home renouncing military pursuits for- ever. He retired first to his estate in the country, but the 358 THE BASTONNAIS. f solitude became painful to him, and he took up his residence in the old capital, where one of the first persons he met was Zulma who had just returned from Paris, after an absence of a couple of years. She was an altered woman, the fire of whose spirits had died out, and who carried the burden of her loneliness as bravely as she could. But her wonderful beauty had not yet decayed. Rather was it expanded into full flower. Like Roderick, she was alone in the world, her father having died within a year after the siege of Quebec. It was only natural that these two should gradually come together, and no one will be surprised to learn that, after a full mutual expla- nation, and with much deliberation, they united their lives. Neither will it astonish any one to be further told that their union proved happy in the solid fruits of contentment. They deserved it all, and it was literally fulfilled that the blessings ol their great sacrifice came to them a hundred-fold. Sometimes, when he was in a jolly mood, Roderick would say : — "* " You remember, dear, that I once predicted I would catch my beautiful rebel. I have caught her." And he would laugh outright. Zulma would only smile faint- ly, as if the reminescence had not lost all its bitterness, but she would return her husband's caress with effusion. We shall not linger to describe the meeting of the four friends — after so many years. Our story is verging to its close, and we have space for only a last incident. One beautiful afternoon, they were all gathered together at the foot of the Montmorenci Falls, around the humble jgrave of Batoche. It was a little tufted mound with a black cross at the head. In their company appeared the picturesque costume of an Ursu- line nun. This was little Blanche, whom Zulma had placed in the convent after the death of her father, and who had de- cided to consecrate her life to God. By special dispensation from a very severe rule, she was allowed to accompany the FINAL QUINTET. 359 friends of her childhood to the grave of her old grandfather. Zulraa and Pauline planted flowers over it, and Blanche threw herself across it sobbing and praying. All wept, even the two strong men, as they gazed upon a scene which reminded them of so much. Poor Batoche ! What was there in the music of the water- fall that seemed responsive to this tribute of his friends ? During my first visit to Canada a few years ago, I met on the Saguenay boat a young lady whose beauty and distinction impressed me. I inquired who she was. An old gentleman informed me that her name was Hardinge, and on tracing up her genealogy, as old men are fond of doing, he made it clear that her two grandmothers were the heroines, and her two grandfathers, the heroes of this history. A son of Roderick and Zulma had married a daughter of Gary and Pauline, and this was their offspring. Thus, at last, the blood of all the lovers had mingled together in one. THE END.