"Nay, it is nothing," he would say to his companions, when they strove to make him spare himself; "I am happier amongst you all. I can always get through the day's work somehow. In my tent I brood and rebel against this crazy carcass of mine; but out here, in the stir and the strife, I can go nigh to forget it."

But Wolfe was soon to have a task set him quite to his liking. He came to his quarters one day with eager, shining eyes; and so soon as he saw him, Julian knew that he had news to tell.

"The batteries upon Lighthouse Point are next to be silenced. We must gain the command of the harbour for our ships. If we can once do that, the day will be ours. I am told off to this task, with twelve hundred men. You and Humphrey are to go with me. We must march right round the town, under cover of night, taking our guns with us. By daybreak we will have them planted behind the French battery; by night, if all goes well, we shall have gained possession of it."

The troops were all drawn up in order for the night march, full of hopeful anticipation. They had that kind of confidence in Wolfe which the commander inspires who is not made but born. Humphrey, whose skill in finding his way in the dark, and whose powers as a guide had been tested before now, was sent on in advance with a handful of men, to give warning of any impending peril to be passed or encountered. He had the untiring energy of a son of the forest, and the instinct which told him of the proximity of the foe before he saw him.

But the march was uneventful in that way. The French had fallen back upon the town. Their fears now were for the very fortress itself, that fortress which they had so proudly boasted was impregnable alike by land and sea! Before the dawn of the morning Humphrey came back to the main body, seeking speech with Wolfe.

"They have abandoned their battery on Lighthouse Point. It is ours without striking a blow. They have spiked their guns and gone! We have only to take possession, mount our guns, and the command of the harbour is ours!"

A shout of triumph went up from the men as this fact became known. Gaily did they push on over the broken country, doing what they could in passing to level the way for the transport of the cannon in the rear. By dawn of day, they were full in sight of their destination, and saw indeed that it was deserted, and only awaited their taking possession. With shouts and cheers they dragged up their guns and set them in position. They fired a salute to tell their friends that all was well, and sent a few shots flying amongst the French ships in the harbour, to the no small consternation of the town.

But Wolfe could not be idle. The task set him had been accomplished without his having to strike a blow.

"We must unite our line, and silence some of those batteries that protect the town on the land side," he said to his men. "The guns and the gunners, with a sufficient force for their protection, will remain here. We have sterner work to do elsewhere; and whilst we are pushing our lines nearer and nearer, I would I knew how they are feeling within the walls of the town."

"Let me be the one to find that out and report," said Julian eagerly.

"You, man! and how?"

"Let me try to make my way within the lines. We have French prisoners; let me borrow the uniform of one. I can speak French as easily as though it were my mother tongue, which, in sooth, perhaps it is; for I might as well call myself French as English, although I have always loved the English and cast in my lot with them. No sentry can know the face of every soldier in the fortress. Let me see if I cannot get within the walls, and bring you word again of what is passing there!"

Wolfe stroked his face thoughtfully.

"It is a bold scheme, and I have a mind to take you at your word; but I would not have you run into too great peril."

"I scarce think that I shall do so. I will have a care. In truth, I should well enough like to see within those solid walls. It is a wonderful fortress this. It might be good for us to know its strength or its weakness, if weakness it has. I would but remain a couple of nights, and then return and bring you word again."

"I should like to hear the report right well," answered Wolfe. "I only wish I could accompany you myself."

"That would never do. Yours is too valuable a life to risk; mine is worth but little to any man save myself."

"I fear rather that I should be but a clog upon your movements," answered Wolfe; "and no man would take me for a Frenchman, even though I can speak the tongue indifferently well. Nor would Amherst suffer me to make the attempt. We are all under obedience to our superiors. But I will suffer you to go, if you think the risk not too great. But have a care of yourself, Julian, have a care. You have become a friend to me that I could ill spare. If aught of harm befell you, the campaign would be clouded to me, even though crowned with victory."

Julian pressed the hand he held, and for a moment there was silence between the pair. Wolfe looked out before him, and said musingly:

"Does it never seem strange to you, Julian, the thought that our trade is one which makes us look upon the slaughter of our foes as the thing most to be desired, whilst we have that in our hearts which causes us to hate the very thought of suffering and death, either for ourselves or for others; and when we see our foes wounded and left upon the field of battle, we give them the care and tending that we give our own men, and seek in every way to allay their pain and bring them help and comfort?"

"Yes, truly; war is full of strange paradoxes," answered Julian thoughtfully. "Sometimes I think that war, like all other ills, comes to us as a part of the curse which sin has brought into the world. We cannot get away from it yet. There be times when it is right to fight—when to sit with folded hands would be a grievous and a cowardly action on the part of a nation. Yet we know that it is God's will that we should love our brethren, and we know that He loves all. So when we see them helpless and suffering, we know that we are right to tend and care for them, and that to do otherwise would be a sin in His sight. And we know, too, that the day will come when wars will cease, when Christ will come and take the power and rule, and when we shall see Him in His glory, and the kingdoms of this world will become the kingdom of our God and of His Christ."

Deep silence fell upon them both, and then Wolfe spoke gently.

"That would, indeed, be a glorious day! though I, a soldier trained to arms, say it. But I fear me I shall never live to see it."

Julian was silent awhile, and then said slowly:

"We cannot tell. Of that day and hour knoweth no man. All we know is that it will come, and will come suddenly. I have lived amongst those who looked to see it from day to day. They had been waiting and watching for the Lord's coming through hard upon a century, they and their fathers before them. The hope was beginning to fade and die out. Priests had come amongst them who bid them think of other things, and look no farther than the sacrifice of the Mass, daily offered before their eyes. And yet I used to feel that the other was the fuller, more glorious hope. I think I shall cherish it always."

"I would were I you," answered Wolfe in a low voice. "I think it is that which has made you different from other men. I think that if I were to be dying, Julian, I should like to hold your hand in mine and feel that you were near."

Then the two friends pressed each other by the hand, and walked back to the camp. As Julian had said, there were many French prisoners there, brought in from time to time after skirmishes. They were treated exactly the same as the English wounded, and Wolfe made a point of visiting them daily, talking to them in their own tongue, and promising them a speedy exchange when any negotiation should be opened with the town. Julian, too, went much amongst them, able to win their confidence very easily, since he seemed to them almost like a brother. It was quite an easy thing for him to disguise himself in the white uniform of a French soldier, and to creep, under cover of the darkness, closer and closer to the wall of the town.

It so chanced that he could not have chosen a better night for his enterprise. The booming of guns across the harbour and from the batteries behind had now become constant, and attracted little notice from sentries or soldiers beyond range. But just as darkness began to fall, a shell from Wolfe's newly-planted battery fell upon one of the French ships in the harbour, and set her on fire. The glare rose in the sky, and suddenly there was the sound of an explosion, sparks rose in dense clouds into the air, and the ship plunged like a wild creature in terror, broke from her moorings, and drifted alongside a sister ship. The flames spread to her rigging, and in a few minutes both were ablaze; and before the affrighted and bewildered crews could do anything to prevent it, a third vessel had become involved in the conflagration, and the town was illumined by the pillars of flame which shot up from the still waters of the harbour.

All was confusion and dismay, for the French had no ships to spare. Four had been deliberately sunk in the harbour's mouth to prevent the entrance of the English, and here were three all in a blaze. The soldiers and inhabitants rushed madly down to the water's edge to seek to stay the conflagration, and Julian, seizing his opportunity, rushed through the gateway with a small detachment of men from one of the outside batteries, and found himself within the town without having been so much as challenged.

Down to the water's edge with the rest he rushed, shouting and gesticulating with the best of them. His uniform prevented his being even so much as looked at. To all appearance he was a French soldier. He did not hesitate to mingle in the crowd, or avoid conversation with any. Very soon he found he was working with the rest in the hopeless endeavour to save the doomed vessels; and he was helpful in getting off some of the half-stifled sailors, dashing upon deck quite a number of times, and bringing back in his strong arms the helpless men who had been overpowered by the flames before they could make their escape.

It was work which Julian loved; for saving life was more to his taste than killing. He toiled on, cheering up his comrades, till all that could be saved were placed upon shore; and when he stepped at last upon the quay after the last voyage to the burning ships, he found himself confronted by a fine soldierly man, whose dress and manner bespoke him a personage of some importance.

"Well done, my good fellow," he said approvingly; "I shall not forget your gallantry tonight. You doubtless belong to one of the vessels, since I have no knowledge of your face. You had better come up to the citadel, where you shall receive refreshment and a place to rest in. We want all the soldiers we can get for the defence of the town, since we are in evil case between foes on land and foes on the sea."

Julian saluted, and spoke a few words of thanks, and the crowd bore him towards the citadel.

"Who was it that spoke to me?" he asked of his next neighbour; and the man replied with a laugh:

"Why, Governor Drucour to be sure! Are you blind with the smoke, my friend? A very gallant governor and soldier he is, as you should know. And as for Madame, his wife—ah, well, you must see her to understand!"

Nor was Julian long in understanding something of what was meant by this unfinished sentence; for he and his companions had not been long seated at table, with a good meal before them, when the door opened, and a tall, elegant lady entered the room, leaning on the arm of the Governor, and instantly the whole company rose, whilst a shout went up:

"Long live the Governor! Long live Madame his wife! Long live the King!"

The lady came in, and motioned to the company to be seated. She walked up and down amongst them, speaking brave words of thanks and cheer; and halting beside Julian, she made him quite a little special speech, telling him how she had heard that he had been the foremost of all in seeking to save the lives of those who might otherwise have perished in the flames.

No questions were asked of him, for the excitement was still strong, and it was taken for granted that he had come off one of the burning ships. The men were all talking together, with the volubility of their race, and Julian took just enough share in the conversation to avoid suspicion.

Besides, why should he be suspected? He looked in every respect a Frenchman. And had he not risked his life more than once that night to save those left on board the vessels?

The next morning he was able to take an excellent view of the citadel and town. He was amazed at the strength of the place. In one sense of the word it was well nigh impregnable. From the water it could scarcely be touched; but the ridges above, now in the possession of the English, were a source of weakness and peril; and now that the enemy was pushing nearer and nearer, under cover of their own guns, it was plain that the position was becoming one of grave peril. A very little more and the English would be able to shell the whole town and fortress from the land side; and though the soldiers within the citadel were full of hope and confidence, the townsfolk were becoming more and more alarmed, and spoke openly together of the probable fall of the place.

They told Julian much that he desired to know, as did also the soldiers within the citadel. He was listening to them, when a sudden cry reached them, and a cheer went up, mingled with cries of "Vive Madame! vive Madame le General!"

Julian looked round, and saw that Madame Drucour had come out upon the ramparts, and was preparing with her own hands to fire off one of the great guns. This she did amid the applause of the soldiers, and the man standing beside Julian said with enthusiasm:

"Madame comes here every day, no matter the weather or the firing, and walks round the ramparts, and fires off one or more of the guns, to keep us in heart. She is a brave lady. If all soldiers and townsfolk had her spirit, there would be no talk of surrendering Louisbourg."



Chapter 3: Victory.

"Julian! Is that you I see? Truly I had begun to fear that some misfortune had befallen you. So you have been within the walls of the town, and have returned safe and sound? Your face is a very welcome one, my friend!"

Wolfe stretched out his hand, which was eagerly grasped by Julian. It was a still, close evening, and the sullen booming of the guns continued without abatement. So used had the ears of besiegers and besieged grown to that sound of menace, that it was hardly heeded more than the roar of the surf upon the shore.

Wolfe was lying in his tent, looking white and worn, as was generally the case after the labours of the day were ended. His indomitable spirit bore him gallantly through the working hours of the long, hot days; but night found him exhausted, and often too suffering to sleep. Julian had been his best companion at such times as these, and he had missed him a good deal these past days.

"I have been within the city and citadel, and have returned safe and sound," answered Julian, throwing off the cloak he wore over his white French uniform. "It cannot be long before the place surrenders. Our guns are doing fearful havoc. Fires break out, as you must see, continually. The King's Bastion was almost all consumed yesterday. The hearts of the townspeople are growing faint within them. The officers and soldiers are bold, and show a cheerful front; but they begin to know that sooner or later they will have to throw up the game."

Wolfe's eyes kindled with martial joy.

"It is the turn of the tide, the turn of the tide!" he exclaimed, his whole face instinct with anticipation of triumph. "The English flag has been trailed in the dust, humiliated, vanquished; but she shall wave aloft over yon proud fortress, which men have called impregnable. And if there, why not over Quebec itself?"

Then, whilst he made Julian refresh himself with food and drink, he bid him tell all the story of his visit to Louisbourg: how he had obtained entrance, what he had seen and heard, and what opinion he now held as to the position of the foe and the chances of the siege.

Wolfe was much delighted with the anecdotes related of the courage and kindness of Madame Drucour.

"The Commander shall hear of that. Brave lady! I would not that she should suffer needless hurt. Tell me, Julian, are they in need of food or wine or any such thing within the walls? I would gladly send to the brave Madame some token of goodwill and appreciation."

"They are well victualled; but I heard Madame say that the sick were suffering somewhat from scurvy, and that she wished she had fruit to distribute amongst them. Some of them have come off the ships, where the illness is frequent. Madame Drucour visits the sick constantly, and dresses their wounds with her own hands when the surgeons are busy. And, indeed, they need all the help they can get, for the sick and wounded increase upon their hands daily."

"They shall have fruit!" cried Wolfe eagerly. "We had a ship arrive to help the squadron, and she came laden with pines from the West Indies. We will send in a quantity to Madame Drucour under a flag of truce. We may be forced to fight our fellow men, but we need not forget that they are of the same flesh and blood as ourselves. An honourable foe is second only to a friend."

"Madame will be grateful for any such act of courtesy, I am sure," replied Julian. "She is a noble lady—gracious, beautiful, and brave. She spoke good words to me, little knowing who I was. It made me feel something treacherous to accept her courtesies, knowing myself for a spy. But yet I have not hurt them by my spying; I can see that the defence cannot long be maintained by those within the walls. Beyond that I have little to say. The fires by day and night tell of the destruction and havoc our guns are making. It needs no spy to report that."

General Amherst was keenly interested next day in hearing the story Julian had to tell, and was ready and eager to send a present of fruit and other dainties for the sick to Madame Drucour. Under cover of a flag of truce the convoy was dispatched, and for half a day the guns on both sides ceased firing.

In addition to the fruit the General sent a very polite letter to the lady, expressing his regret for the annoyance and anxiety she must be experiencing, and sending a number of small billets and messages from wounded Frenchmen in their hands to their friends in the city.

The messengers returned bearing with them a basket and a note. The basket contained some bottles of choice wine for the General's table, and the letter, written by Madame Drucour herself, was couched in terms of courtesy and gratitude. She declared that the fruit for the sick was just the very thing she had been most desiring, and wondered what bird of the air had whispered the message into the ear of the noble English officer. As for the war itself, deplorable as it must always be, the knowledge that they were fighting against a generous and worthy foe could not but be a source of happiness; and, in conclusion, the lady added that they had within the walls of Louisbourg a surgeon of uncommon skill with gunshot wounds, and that his services should always be at the command of any English officer who might desire them.

"That is like her!" exclaimed Julian to Wolfe, when the terms of the letter were made known. "She is a very noble and gracious lady, and I trust and hope no hurt will come to her. But she exposes herself to many perils in the hope of cheering and heartening up the men. They all fight better for the knowledge that she is near them; and she goes her daily rounds of the ramparts, be the firing ever so hot!"

The cannon were roaring again now from both lines of batteries. The doomed fortress was holding out gallantly, and had as yet given no sign of surrender.

Wolfe was hard at work, day after day, drawing his lines closer and closer. His military genius showed itself in every disposition of his lines and batteries. He saw at a glance exactly what should be done, and set to work to do it in the best possible way.

"How many ships have they in the harbour?" he asked of Julian, two days after his return from the town.

"Only two of any size—the Bienfaisant and the Prudent. The rest have been sunk or destroyed."

"I think we had better make an end of those two," said Wolfe thoughtfully.

"It might not be a task of great difficulty, if it could be done secretly," said Julian. "The soldiers are mostly on land. They need them more in the citadel than on board; and they think the ships are safe, lying as they do under their own batteries. If we could get a dull or foggy night, we might make a dash at them. We can enter the harbour now that the Island battery is silenced and the frigate Arethuse gone. They say the sailors on board the ships are longing for a task. They would rejoice to accomplish something of that sort."

"Get me ready a boat, and you and Humphrey row me out to our fleet yonder," said Wolfe, looking out over the wide expanse of blue beyond the harbour. "I will speak of this with the Admiral, and see what he thinks of the undertaking."

They rowed him out from Flat Point to the flagship, and put him on board. It was a fine sight to see the great battleships anchored in the bay, ready to take their part in the struggle at a word of command. But the French fleet had done little or nothing to harass them. They were complete masters of the deep. Even the ships in the harbour had not ventured out, and now only two of them remained.

"There will be none tomorrow, if this sea mist comes down," said Wolfe, with a little grim smile, as he entered the boat again. "Row me to the harbour's mouth; I would take a look for myself at the position of the vessels."

The sun was shining brilliantly upon land, but over the sea there was a little haze, which seemed disposed to increase. It had been so for two or three days, the fog coming thicker at night. Wolfe looked keenly about him as he reached the mouth of the harbour. He did not attempt to enter it, but sat looking before him with intent, critical gaze.

"I see," he remarked, after a pause. "Now row me once more to the flagship, and so back. The thing can be done."

Promptitude was one of Wolfe's characteristics; he never let grass grow under his feet. If the thing was to be done, let it be done at once; and the British tar is never a laggard when there is fighting or adventure to be had!

Julian and Humphrey volunteered for the service. Humphrey was a favourite with the sailors, having been employed almost constantly in carrying messages to and from the fleet, or in helping to land transports. He was as expert now in the management of a boat as the best of the jack tars, and was eager to take part in the daring enterprise which was to be carried out that night.

Six hundred sailors, collected from different vessels, were to be told off for the task. They set to work with hearty goodwill, muffling their oars, and preparing for their noiseless advance into the harbour. The guns would roar ceaselessly overhead. That would do much to drown any sound from the water. Still, care and caution would have to be exercised; for the batteries of the fortress commanded the harbour, and the ships lay beneath their protecting guns. If the little flotilla betrayed its approach by any unguarded sound, it might easily be annihilated before ever it could approach its goal. So that the task set the hardy sailors was not without its distinct element of peril, which was perhaps its chiefest attraction.

The shades of night gathered slowly over land and sea. It seemed to Humphrey and some of those waiting in the boats as though night had never fallen so slowly before. But their eyes were gladdened by the sight of the soft fog wreaths which crept over the water as the dusk fell, lying upon it like a soft blanket, and blotting out the distance as much as the darkness could do.

It was not a heavy fog. The sailors were in no danger of losing their way as they rowed, first for the harbour mouth, and then for the two French warships at anchor beneath the batteries. But it was thick enough to hide their approach from those on land. It was not probable that even the crews of the vessels would be aware of their close proximity till the word to board was given. Unless some accidental and unguarded sound betrayed their advance, they might in all likelihood carry all before them by a surprise movement.

Julian was in the same boat as the officer in command of the expedition. His intimate knowledge of the position of the war vessels would be of use in this murk and darkness. Humphrey took an oar in the same boat; and the little fleet got together, and commenced its silent voyage just as the clocks of the fortress boomed out the midnight hour.

It was a strange, ghostly voyage. There was a moon in the sky overhead, and the outlines of the hills and batteries, and even of the fortress itself, could be distinguished wherever the ground rose high enough; but wreaths of white vapour lay lazily along the water, or seemed to curl slowly upwards like smoke from some fire, and the boats rowed along in the encircling mist, only able to gain glimpses from time to time of the moonlit world as a puff of wind drove the vapour away from their path and gave them a transitory outlook upon their surroundings.

The dull roar of the guns filled the air. Sometimes the batteries were silent at night; but Wolfe kept things alive on this occasion, in order to cover the approach of the boarding party. Now the mouth of the harbour was reached, and the little fleet gathered itself more compactly together, and the muffling of the oars was carefully looked to. Directions as to the order to be observed had been given before, and the boats fell into their appointed position with quickness and accuracy.

Julian took the helm of the leading boat, and steered it across the harbour towards the anchored vessels. He knew exactly where and how they lay. And soon the little flotilla was lying compactly together, its presence all unsuspected, within a cable's length of the two battleships.

Now the time for concealment was over. The men seized their arms in readiness. The boats dashed through the water at full speed. The next moment hundreds of hardy British sailors were swarming up the sides of the French vessels, uttering cheers and shouts of triumph the while.

Humphrey and Julian were amongst the first to spring upon the deck of the Bienfaisant. The startled crew were just rushing up from below, having been made aware of the peril only a few seconds earlier. Some of them were but half dressed; few of them knew what it was that was happening. They found themselves confronted by English sailors with dirk and musket. Sharp firing, shouts, curses, cries, made the night hideous for a few minutes, and then a ringing voice called out in French:

"Surrender the vessels, and your lives shall be spared."

It was Julian who cried these words at the command of the officer, and there was no resistance possible for the overpowered crew. The soldiers were on shore within the fort. They were but a handful of men in comparison with their English assailants. It was impossible to dispute possession.

"Take to your boats and go ashore, and you shall not be molested," was the next cry; and the men were forced to obey, the fighting having lasted only a very brief space: for it was evident from the first that the English were masters, and needless carnage was not desired by them.

Nevertheless the peril to the English sailors was by no means over yet. The guns in the battery now opened fire upon the fleet of boats, and a hailstorm of shot and shell raged round them; so that the French sailors dared not leave the vessel, but crowded below out of the hot fire, preferring to trust to the tender mercies of their captors rather than to the guns of their countrymen.

"Tow her away under one of our own batteries," was the order, given as coolly as though this leaden rain were nothing but a summer shower.

Humphrey sprang to the side, and cut the cable which anchored her to her moorings. Just at that moment a glow of light through the fog fell across the deck, and looking up he saw a pillar of flame rising from the water close at hand, and casting strange lights and shadows upon the shifting mists which enwrapped them.

"They have fired the Prudent!" exclaimed Julian. "Now we shall have light for our task; but we shall be a better target for the enemy's fire. We must lose no time. Cut loose the second cable; we should be moving. See that the boats are all ready to tow us along. What a grand sight that burning ship is!

"Ah, I see now. She is aground with the ebb tide. They could not move her, so they have fired her instead. There are her boats rowing for shore with her crew in them!"

It was a strange, grand sight, watching the flames enwrap the doomed vessel from stem to stern, till she was one sheet of rosy light. Even the guns from shore had ceased to fire for a brief space, as though the gunners were watching the weird spectacle of the illuminated fog, or were perhaps afraid lest their fire should hurt their own comrades in the boats. But the English sailors took advantage of the lull to set to their task of towing the Bienfaisant with hearty goodwill.

"She moves! she moves!" cried Humphrey excitedly, standing at the wheel to direct her course. "Well pulled, comrades—well pulled indeed! Ah, their guns are going to speak again! They will not let us go without a parting salute."

The batteries on shore opened their mouths, and belched forth flame and smoke. The ship staggered beneath the leaden hail; but the guns were too high to do mischief to the boats upon the water, and the sailors replied by a lusty cheer. Julian wiped away a few drops of blood that trickled down his face from a slight cut on his temple; but for the most part the shot struck only the spars and rigging, whistling harmlessly over the heads of the men on deck, who laughed and cheered as they encouraged their comrades in the boats to row their hardest and get beyond reach of the enemy's fire.

Wolfe had planted a battery himself just lately which commanded a part of the harbour, and beneath this sheltering battery the Bienfaisant was towed, whilst the sailors cheered might and main; and once out of reach of the enemy's fire, rested on their oars and watched the grand illumination of the flame-wrapped Prudent.

"If war is a horrible thing," said Julian reflectively to Humphrey, "it has at least its grand sights. Look at the red glare upon the shifting fog banks! Is it not like some wild diabolic carnival? One could fancy one saw the forms of demons flitting to and fro in all that reek and glare."

Humphrey's grave young face wore a rather stern look.

"I have seen other fires than that, and heard of those I have not seen—fires the memory of which will live in my heart for years and years! If we burn the vessels of the French, is it not because they have hounded on the Indians to burn our homesteads, ay, and with them our defenceless wives and children, mothers and sisters? Shall not deeds like these bring about a stern retaliation? Are we not here to take vengeance upon those who have been treacherous foes, and shamed the Christian profession that they make? Shall we pity or spare when we remember what they have done? The blood of our brothers cries out to us. We do but repay them in their own coin."

"Yes," returned Julian thoughtfully; "there is a stern law of reaping and sowing ordained of God Himself. We may well believe that we are instruments in His hands for the carrying out of His purpose. Yet we must seek always to be led of Him, and not to take matters into our own hands. 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'"

"I believe He will," said Humphrey, with a flash in his eyes; "but give it to me to be there to see!"

"As I think we shall," answered Julian, "for I believe that the key of the war will lie next at Quebec. Whoever holds that, holds the power in Canada, and from Canada can command the western frontier. And the taking of Quebec is the object upon which the mind of Wolfe is firmly set. You know how often he has said to us, 'If I could achieve that, I could say my Nunc Dimittis with joy and thankfulness.' I believe in my heart that he will live to see that glorious victory for England's arms."

Wolfe was waiting upon the strand for the boat which brought Julian and Humphrey back with the details of the victorious enterprise. He grasped them both by the hand.

"Now I think that surrender cannot much longer be delayed, and, in truth, I hope it will not be. News has reached us from the west of some great disaster at Ticonderoga. It is but the voice of rumour. A light fishing smack brought letters to the General this evening, dated from Albany, and sent by special messenger. Nothing definite is known; but they report a disastrous defeat, attributed to the untimely death of Lord Howe quite early in the expedition. I cannot say what truth there may be in this, but I fear some great disaster has recently taken place. It has made the General and his officers very stern and resolved. England's honour has been sorely tarnished by these many defeats. But I believe her star will rise again. Louisbourg at least must fall ere long."

Julian and Humphrey were both filled with sorrow and anxiety at this piece of news. Charles and Fritz were both likely, they thought, if living still, to be there with the army; and one was anxious for news of his brother, and the other of his comrade and friend.

"When Louisbourg is taken," said Humphrey, "I shall ask leave of absence to go to seek my brother. My sister in Philadelphia will give me tidings of him. I shall go thither, and come back when the attempt upon proud Quebec is made."

"If I had my way, we should sail from Louisbourg straight for Quebec," cried Wolfe, with a flash in his eyes. "I would follow up one blow by another. Yet I know not whether our instructions will carry us thus far. Nevertheless, I hope to live to see the day when the English flag shall wave over the ramparts of that city and fortress which has been called the Impregnable."

The news, rumour though it was and unconfirmed, of fresh disaster to the English arms in the interior excited much feeling in the English ranks. Had there been another massacre, such as had disgraced the struggle at Fort William Henry? What would be the next tidings which would reach them of their brethren in arms?

There had been so many tales of horror told out in the wild west that strong men often shuddered at the bare thought of what they might have to bear. So the faces of men and officers were alike stern and dark; and when the white flag fluttered at last from the walls of Louisbourg, and the news ran like wildfire through the camp that the fortress was about to surrender, there was a feeling in all hearts that the terms granted should not be too easy. France owed England a deep and mighty debt, which sooner or later she must pay.

Wolfe was sent for to be with General Amherst when he received the deputation of the French, and he returned to his quarters looking grave and thoughtful.

"We have told them that they must surrender as prisoners of war, and send their reply within an hour. If they refuse, we attack at once both by land and sea. We are all resolved that the siege shall be brought to an end. If we could have been here a month earlier, we might have effected a junction with our friends in the west, and have averted the calamity which has overtaken them there."

"Will they accept?" asked Julian eagerly. "They are in a sore strait, but yet they are brave men. They might, perhaps, have looked to be permitted to march out with the honours of war after their bold defence."

"Yes; and this would have been granted them had it not been for what happened at Fort William Henry. But the memory of that day cannot be wiped out from the memory of our officers, The General was supported by the bulk of his officers. They will have no conditions. They will treat the sick and the wounded and the towns people with every consideration, but they will be absolute masters. The Admiral was there, and he and the General signed the note. They are resolved to abide by its contents."

Excitement reigned everywhere. The firing had ceased, and the stillness of the air was like that which sometimes precedes the bursting of a thunderstorm, What reply would the fort return? and how quickly would it arrive? It was understood that, in the event of delay, a general assault would be made, and some of the soldiers would have eagerly welcomed the order for the advance.

Keen excitement prevailed when it became known that a messenger had come, not bringing the expected reply, but one asking for less rigorous terms.

"The General would not see him," was the cry. "He was sent back to say that nothing would be changed from the last letter addressed to the Governor. The Admiral and General are alike agreed. There will be no wavering from that."

It was plain that there was some variance in the city itself. In the ranks of the besieging force there was intense excitement and stir. Every man was looking to his arms, save when he was asking news and gazing towards the walls of the city. That something decisive must soon be settled was apparent to all.

The white flag again! A messenger was coming out towards the camp with the reply. He appeared in no haste, and paused again and again to look back. Suddenly another man appeared running hastily after him. The first messenger paused, consulted with him, and then turned back towards the city. The second man ran on alone, making vehement signs, as though afraid there might yet be some misunderstanding.

"We accept! we accept!" he shouted out, waving a paper above his head, beside himself with excitement.

Two men followed him; they were taken into the tent of the General, who, with the Admiral, was awaiting the final answer. But the first messenger remained without, panting and exhausted, and Julian instantly recognized him as an officer who had shown him some kindness during his short stay within the fortress.

He came up to him now, and the recognition was mutual.

"So you were a spy all the while, my friend!" said the Frenchman, with something like a grim laugh. "Had we known that, you would have received a different welcome. Ah well, it matters little now. And it is a pity for brave men to die like dogs. We were in a sad pass before. You could not have told much that was not already known."

"The fortress is ready to capitulate?"

"Not the fortress, but the town. Bad as our condition is, we would not have surrendered on those terms. We had indeed dispatched a messenger to say as much. But the Provost and the citizens were too many for us. They ran to the citadel, and made such work that the Governor yielded, and I offered, being fleet of foot, to run after the messenger and stop him if it could be done. Luckily his own heart misgave him, and he had not hurried. And close upon my heels were sent others with more definite instructions. And thus Louisbourg passes into the hands of gallant foes. But I trust they will show every courtesy to our brave Madame."

"Have no fear on that score," answered Julian; "I have told in the English camp of the bravery and gracious kindness of Madame le General. Our commander will see that she is treated with every consideration; as also the sick and wounded, her special charge. It is well not to drive us to assault the weakened town. Now we shall enter as friends rather than foes."

"So said the Provost, remembering that the English have much cause of complaint against us. We cannot deny that ourselves. Ah me! it is the chance of war. We have had our triumphs, and now you have your turn. It is not here but at Quebec that the real trial of strength will be. I think, my friends, you will find that you have a hard nut to crack there."

"So they said of Louisbourg, and yet that has been done," answered Julian, with a smile. "But come in, and refresh yourself in my tent here whilst the messengers are conferring with our General. They will have to draw up terms of capitulation. There will be time to get a good meal whilst that is being done."

At dawn the following morning the drums beat. The English soldiers got into order, and marched through the Dauphin gate into the town. The French soldiers, drawn up in array, threw down their muskets, and with tears of mortification marched away, leaving the victors in possession.

The English flag was run up, amid wild cheering, and floated over the grim and shattered ramparts. The turn of the tide had come at last, and Louisbourg had fallen into the hands of the English.



Chapter 4: The Fruits Of Victory.

Wolfe lay upon a couch in a comfortable apartment, such as he had not inhabited since he set sail from England months ago. It was in the citadel itself—in the heart of the King's Bastion, where the Governor had his quarters.

Wolfe had been the life and soul of the siege. To his genius and indomitable resolution the victory of the English arms had been largely due. He had forced himself to take the lead, and had toiled night and day in the crisis of the struggle and the final triumph; and even after the victors had marched in, his eyes seemed to be everywhere, enforcing discipline, preventing any sort of disorder or licence amongst the soldiers, and sternly repressing the smallest attempt on their part to plunder the townsfolk, or take the slightest advantage of their helpless condition.

He had specially seen to the condition of the sick and wounded, insuring them the same care as was given to the English in like case. This had been one of the articles of the capitulation, but it was one which was in like cases too often carelessly carried out, sometimes almost ignored.

Wolfe with his own eyes saw that there was no shirking, no mismanagement here. He seemed to be everywhere at once during those busy days which followed the entrance into the town. But outraged nature would have her revenge at last, and for three days he had lain helpless and suffering in the room assigned to him in the Governor's house, watched over and tended by Julian, who had by this time come to have a very adequate idea as to the treatment most needed by him when those attacks came on.

The cool of the evening had followed upon the heat of a very sultry day, which had greatly tried the sufferer. Wolfe looked up, and saw his friend beside him, and smiled in recognition of his attentions.

"You are always here, Julian; you must surely want rest yourself. You have been here night and day. I know it even though I may not seem to do so. But I shall be on my legs again soon. I can feel that the access of pain is abating. How have things been going in the town since I was laid by the heels?"

"Oh well, several vessels with their load of prisoners have already sailed for England; many of the townsfolk and merchants have started, or are starting, for France; some regiments of our men are to be sent at once to reinforce General Abercromby. I fear by all accounts that they will come too late to be of any real use for the campaign this season. It is quite true that he suffered a crushing defeat at Ticonderoga, due, as many of the officers say, to bad generalship. Still he will doubtless be glad of support in the wilderness, wherever he may be. Humphrey is to start with the first detachment; he expects his orders for departure daily."

Wolfe raised himself upon his elbow and sat up, despite his weakness, fired by excitement and energy.

"But Quebec, Quebec, Quebec!" he exclaimed; "surely we are going forward to Quebec?"

Julian shook his head doubtfully.

"I fear me not at least this present season. I hear it said that General Amherst was ready, but that the Admiral was against it for the present. They say there is still much to do in subduing the adjacent possessions of France in these lands, and so paving the way for the greater enterprise. Various officers are to be sent hither and thither upon expeditions to small settlements, to uproot or destroy them. When this has been done, perhaps the move to Quebec will be made. But I fear me it will not be before next year."

Wolfe made a gesture of irritation and impatience.

"Have we not yet had enough of procrastination?" he questioned bitterly. "Will England never learn the lesson which her reverses should have taught her? What boots the victory we have gained here, if it be not the stepping stone to lead us to Quebec?"

"Who speaks of Quebec?" asked a clear, musical voice at the half-open door; and Julian sprang to his feet, exclaiming as he did so:

"It is Madame Drucour! she has come every day to see and inquire after you."

Hearing the sound of her name, the lady pushed open the door and entered—a graceful, stately figure clothed all in black; her beautiful face worn and pale, and trouble lurking in the depths of her hazel eyes; yet calm and serene and noble of aspect as she moved forward and held out a slim white hand to the patient.

"You are better, Monsieur?" she asked, in her full, rich tones. "I trust that the suffering is less than it was. The fever, I can see, has abated somewhat."

Wolfe carried the hand he held to his lips. In common with all the officers who had made her acquaintance, Wolfe had come to have a very high opinion of Madame Drucour.

"I thank you, gracious lady, for your condescension in asking. I trust soon to be restored to such measure of health and strength as I ever enjoy. At best I am but a cranky creature; but with quarters such as these I should be worse than ungrateful if I did not mend. I trust my presence here has caused you no inconvenience; for truly I believe that I am in your house, and that I owe to you the comforts I enjoy."

She gave a strange little smile as she seated herself beside him.

"In truth, Monsieur, I know not what I may call my own today. This town and fortress are now no longer ours, and we are but here ourselves on sufferance—prisoners of war—"

"Nay, nay, not prisoners—not you, Madame," answered Wolfe hastily. "We war not against women—least of all such noble ladies as yourself!"

She acknowledged this speech by a little motion of the head, and then continued, in a tone at once sorrowful and dignified: "I cannot separate myself from those amongst whom I have lived for so long. I acknowledge with gratitude the courtesy I have received from all. I know that my personal liberty is assured to me. But my heart will always be where there is need of help by my own countrymen. If not a prisoner to the English, I am held in other bonds."

"Ah yes," answered Wolfe, with an answering sparkle in his eye; "that I understand well. We are all bound to our country in bonds that cannot be severed. And yet we are bound to the common cause of humanity, and there we meet on common ground. We need not remember anything else at such a time, Madame. We serve in one army there. Do not our wounded as well as your own bless the sight of your face and the sound of your voice amongst them?"

"And have they not cause to bless the name of that brave officer who, in spite of his own weakness and suffering, would not rest until he had seen in person that all were cared for—foes as well as friends? Yes, truly, Monsieur, in one warfare we can stand upon the same side, and fight the same battle against disease and suffering and death. I would that this were the only kind of warfare that is known in the world!"

"And I too—sometimes," replied Wolfe, lying back again on his pillows and looking dreamily out before him. "There are moments, it is true, when the battle fever works in a man's blood, and war seems to him then a glorious game. But it has its terrible and hateful side, as every soldier knows well. And yet the day seems far away when wars shall be no more."

"Indeed yes," answered Madame Drucour, with a little sigh; "we have a sorrowful prospect before us yet. What was the word which I heard you speak as I entered? Was it not of that projected march upon Quebec?"

"It was," answered Wolfe frankly. "I may not deny, Madame, that the longing of my heart at this moment is to try conclusions with your gallant countrymen beneath the walls of Quebec."

"You are bold, Monsieur," said Madame Drucour, with a little smile.

"You know Quebec, Madame?"

"Very well. It is there that I purpose going with my husband when the exchange is completed which gives him his liberty. I have relatives there, and I go to be with them when duty may call my husband elsewhere. If you come to Quebec, Monsieur, we may perchance meet again."

"It will be something happy to look forward to."

"There is always joy in feeling that the foe we fight is a noble and generous one. I shall tell in Quebec how the English General, though stern in his terms of capitulation, refused to me nothing that I asked when once the town was given up, and how generously he and all his officers showed themselves, and in especial one—Brigadier Wolfe!"

The young man bowed at the compliment.

"And I, on my side, shall know that if Madame Drucour is within the walls of Quebec, no garrison can fail to be gallant and devoted. Such an example before their eyes would put heart and heroism into the most faint hearted."

A very sincere liking grew up between Madame Drucour and her guests before Wolfe was on his legs again, and able to return to his quarters amongst his men. Indeed, his happiest hours were spent in the company of that lady, for there was much to vex and try him when in the camp.

There was to be no move upon Quebec that season and Wolfe chafed rather bitterly at the decision, and wrote to General Amherst in stronger terms than most subordinate officers would have ventured to do. He even spoke of throwing up the service, if nothing were to be done at such a critical time; but the General would not hear of losing so valuable an officer, and indeed, in spite of the irritability sometimes engendered by his ill-health, Wolfe was too much the soldier at heart ever to abandon his calling.

It was, however, rather hard to one of his ardent and chivalrous temperament, eager for the great blow to be struck against Quebec, to be deputed to harry and destroy a number of little fishing settlements along the Gulf of St. Lawrence—which measure he considered a needless severity, and hated accordingly. It was a relief to him to know that Pitt, having heard of his severe bout of illness after the taking of Louisbourg, had summoned him back to England to recruit his health.

"When we have finished our great exploit of robbing fishermen of their nets and burning their huts, we will to England again, Julian; and you will come with me, my trusty comrade and friend. If we are spreading the terror of England's name here, we are not adding to her laurels. Let me remain at home till there be real warfare to accomplish, and then let me come out again. This task is odious and sickening to me. Were it not that another might show more harshness and barbarity over it, I would e'en decline the mission."

Humphrey had already left Louisbourg for Philadelphia and the western frontier; but Julian had elected to remain with Wolfe, who had come to depend upon him in no small measure. There was something in the temperaments of the two men which made them congenial one to the other. Wolfe's restless irritability was soothed by Julian's quiet calmness, and there was in both men a strain of ardent patriotism and self devotion which gave them sympathies in common.

Together they set sail for England when the soldier's work was done, and after a fairly prosperous voyage they landed in that country, and immediately started for Bath, where Wolfe hoped to find relief from his rheumatic troubles, and gain the strength which he had lost during this hard campaign.

"I think my mother will be awaiting me there this time," he said, with a light in his eyes. "You have never seen my mother yet, Julian. Ah, how I long to see her again! she has been such a mother to me! There are times when I think if I have to give up this profession of arms, and take to a quiet life, I could have a very happy life at home with my mother. We suit each other so well, and we are like each other in our foibles and weaknesses. I think I have inherited my cranky health from her, but not her beauty. You will see for yourself how little like her I am in that respect when we get home."

To Julian, who had known nothing of the joys of home since he left his valley in the far south of the Western world, and who had no home to call his own now, there was something touching in the eagerness of Wolfe to reach his home and his mother. His father was not likely to be there. He would almost certainly be either in Kent, or else abroad; for he still held a command in the army, and the war on the Continent was still raging furiously. But the mother would be awaiting her son in the house he had written to ask her to secure for him again. It was within easy reach of the town, and yet it was quiet and secluded, and suited his tastes and habits.

It was almost dark one murky autumn evening when the lumbering coach, which had conveyed the friends the last stages of their journey, drew up at the door of the house. Lights shone in the windows, and from the open door there streamed out a glowing shaft of yellow light, bespeaking the warm welcome awaiting the tired traveller.

Wolfe had been weary to the verge of exhaustion when they had abandoned the attempt to ride the whole distance, and had secured the heavy coach; but now he seemed to revive to new life, and he sprang from it with some of the activity of youth and strength.

"Mother—there is my mother!" he exclaimed; and Julian saw him take the steps two at a time, to meet the advancing greeting from the mother who had come to welcome home her son.

Mrs. Wolfe was a distinctly beautiful woman, whose beauty had been but little dimmed by time. There was a sweet, matronly repose about her, and the brightness of her red-gold hair was dashed with streaks of soft grey beneath the laces with which it was crowned. But her complexion was clear and fair, and there was a look of soft fragility about her which made the son's protecting air of solicitude a natural and appropriate one. She folded him in her arms in a long, rapturous embrace; and Julian stood silently by the while, reverent of that deep love which for the moment could find no expression save in the whispered words:

"Mother! mother! mother!"

"My son—my dear boy! my son come back to me!"

When the lady turned at length to greet the silent figure who stood silently watching this meeting, Julian could see that the tears were standing upon her cheeks and sparkling in her eyes.

"You will pardon me, sir, for this apparent neglect," she said sweetly, putting her thin jewelled fingers into Julian's hand; "but when my boy goes forth to the fight, I never know whether it will be God's will to send him back to me safe and sound. A mother's heart cannot but be full upon a day like this. But second only to my joy in welcoming him back is this of making acquaintance with the trusty friend who has been so much to him during his perils and labours."

"Madam, it has been the joy and honour of my life to be able to serve so great a soldier and so noble a man!"

The warm clasp upon his fingers gave the mother's answer to this; and then they all moved within the lighted hall, where a glowing fire and a number of candles gave bright illumination, and where quite a hubbub of welcome was going on. The servants were pressing forward to see and greet their young master, who had come home crowned with laurels. It was known by this time in England how much of the success at Louisbourg had been due to Wolfe's unfailing energy and intrepidity. He was a hero at home as well as abroad, though he had hardly realized it yet. Moreover, he was vociferously welcomed by his dogs, all of whom had been brought by his mother to meet their master again; and he had much ado to return the manifold greetings bestowed upon him, and to free himself at last from the demonstrative affection of his canine friends.

A plentiful supper was awaiting the wearied travellers; and it was when they had put in order their dress and entered the dining room that they were aware of the presence of another lady, a very handsome, dark-eyed girl, who stood beside the glowing fire regarding their entrance with looks of unaffected interest.

"My dear," said Mrs. Wolfe, "let me present to you my son James, of whom you know much, although you have never met; and his friend and companion, Lieutenant Julian Dautray, whose name is equally known to you.

"This, James, is Miss Kate Lowther, the daughter of an old friend of ours, who has left her in my charge whilst he takes a last voyage to Barbados, where once he was Governor, to be my daughter and companion till he comes back to claim her."

The bright-eyed girl dropped a courtesy to the gentlemen, who bowed low before her; but then holding out her hand frankly to Wolfe, she said in a clear, fresh voice.

"I am so glad to see you, Cousin James. I am going to call you that because I call your mother Aunt, and she has given me leave to do so. I know so much about you from your letters. I have copied every one of them to send to your father, for Aunt will not part with the originals even for him! I know all about Louisbourg, and the batteries, and the ships, and the big guns. Oh, I think if I were a man I could become an officer at once, and command a great campaign like that one! We had such rejoicings here when the news came! it was like new life to us. We had heard of that dreadful defeat at Ticonderoga, and it seemed as though England was never to rise from the dust of humiliation. It was openly said that Louisbourg would never fall; that it was as impregnable as Quebec. Oh, there was such lugubrious talk! And then came the news of the victory, and of Brigadier Wolfe's valiant and doughty deeds. You may guess how your mother's eyes shone at that! And all England echoed to the sound of your name!"

"A name more formidable in sound than in reality," spoke Wolfe, laughing, but cheered and pleased by the sincere and pretty enthusiasm of the winning girl. "When those who have kindly admired me from the distance come to inspect me in person, what a shock they will receive! We shall have to palm Julian here off as the right man; he will play the part with much more dignity and grace."

Kate looked from one to the other laughing.

"What do you expect me to say to that? Lieutenant Dautray looks every inch a soldier; but I think, Cousin James, that you have the air of the man born to command."

"In spite of my cropped red head and lanky limbs? I am proud of the compliment paid me."

Wolfe was certainly rather taken aback to find himself a man of so much mark when he showed himself in Bath. He had quite an ovation when first he appeared at the Pump Room; and although he was in a measure accustomed to lead a public life, and to be the object of attention and even admiration, he shrank from having this carried into his private life, and was happiest at home with his mother and friend, and with bright Kate Lowther, with whom he soon became wonderfully intimate.

The girl's sincere affection for his frail and delicate mother would in any case have won his heart; but there was something exceedingly attractive in her whole personality and in her eager interest in his past career and in the fortunes of the war. She would sit for hours beside him whilst he related to his mother the incidents of the campaign, and her questions and comments showed a quick intelligence and ready sympathy that were a never-failing source of interest to him.

Her strength and vitality were refreshing to one who was himself almost always weak and suffering. He would watch her at play with the dogs in the garden, or up and down the staircase, and delight in the grace and vigour of her movements. She would come in from her walks and rides with a glow upon her face and a light in her eyes, and sitting down beside him would relate all that had befallen her since her departure an hour or two before—telling everything in so racy and lively a fashion that it became the chiefest pleasure of Wolfe's life to lie and look at her and listen to her conversation.

Christmas was close upon them. It would be a bright and happy season for mother and son, spent together after their long separation. Upon the eve of that day Kate came eagerly in with a large official letter in her hand, addressed to the soldier. It was a moment of excitement whilst he opened it, for it was known that he had been corresponding latterly with several ministers respecting the proposed expedition against Quebec, and all knew how dear to his heart was the fulfilment of that daring scheme.

As he read the document his cheek flushed. He sat up more erect in his chair, and there came into his face a look which his soldiers well knew. It was always to be seen there when he led them into battle.

"Mother," he said very quietly, "Mr. Pitt has chosen me to command the expedition now fitting out against Quebec."

Mrs. Wolfe gave a little gasp, the tears springing to her eyes; but over Kate's face there spread a deep, beautiful flush, and she grasped the young man by the hand, exclaiming:

"O Cousin James, how glad I am! What a splendid victory it will be!"

"If it be won!" he said, looking up at her with kindling eyes. "But there is always an 'if' in the case."

"There will be none when you are in command," answered Kate, with a ring of proud assurance in her voice. "Had you been commander of the Louisbourg expedition, Quebec would have been ours by now."

Their eyes met. In hers he read unbounded admiration and faith. It thrilled him strangely. It brought a look of new purpose into his face. He held her hand, and she left it lying in his clasp. He was holding it still when he turned to his mother.

"Are you not glad, mother mine?" he asked gently.

"Oh yes, my son—glad and proud of the honour done you, of the appreciation shown of your worth and service. But how will you be able to undergo all that fatigue, and the perils and sufferings of another voyage? That is what goes to my heart. You are so little fit for it all!"

"I have found that a man can always be fit for his duty," said Wolfe gravely. "Is not that so, Kate?"

"With you it is," she answered, with another of her wonderful glances; and the mother, watching the faces of the pair, rose from her seat and crept from the room. Her heart was at once glad and sorrowful, proud and heavy; she felt that she must ease it with a little weeping before she could talk of this great thing with the spirit her son would look to find in her.

Wolfe and Kate were left alone together. He got possession of her other hand. She was standing before him still, a beautiful bloom upon her face, her eyes shining like stars.

"You are pleased with all this, my Kate?" he asked; and he let the last words escape him unconsciously.

"Pleased that your country should do you this great honour? Of course I am pleased. You have deserved it at her hands; yet men do not always get their deserts in this world."

"No; and you must not think that there are not hundreds of better and braver men than myself in our army, or that I am a very wonderful person. I have got the wish of my heart—it has been granted to me more fully than I ever looked to see it; but how often do we see in the hour of triumph that there is something bitter in the cup, something we had not looked to find there. Three months ago I was burning to sail for Quebec, and now—"

He paused for a moment, and she looked full at him.

"Surely you have not changed. You want to go; your heart is set upon it!"

"Yes," he answered gravely: "my wish and purpose have never wavered; but now my heart is divided. Once it beat only for my country, and the clash of arms was music in my ears; now it has found a rival elsewhere. If I go to Quebec, I must leave you behind, my Kate!"

Suddenly into her bright eyes there sprang the smart of tears. She clasped the hands that held hers and pressed them closely.

"It will not be for long," she said; "you will return covered with glory and renown!"

"It may be so, it may be so; yet who can tell? Think how many gallant soldiers have been left behind upon that great continent: Braddock, Howe—oh, I could name many others less known to fame, perhaps, but gallant soldiers all. We go out with our lives in our hand, and so many never return!"

The tears began to fall slowly in sparkling drops. She could not release her hands to wipe them away.

"Do not speak so, James; it is not like you! Why do you try to break my heart?"

"Would you care so much, so much, were I to find a soldier's grave?"

A quick sob was her reply. She turned her head away.

"Kate, do you love me?"

"I think you know that I do, James."

"I have begun to hope, and yet I have scarcely dared. You so full of life and strength and beauty, and I such a broken crock!"

"A hero, you mean!" she answered, with flashing eyes—"a soldier and a hero; tenfold more a hero in that you overcome pain and weakness, sickness and suffering, in the discharge of your duty, and do things that others would declare impossible! Oh yes, I have heard of you; Lieutenant Dautray has told me. I know how you have done the impossible again and yet again. James, you will do this once again. You will storm that great fortress which men call impregnable—you will storm it and you will vanquish it; and you will come home crowned with glory and honour! And I shall be here waiting for you; I shall watch and wait till you come. It is written in the book of fate that your name is to go down to posterity as the hero of Quebec. I am sure of it—oh, I am sure! Do not say anything to damp my hope, for I will not believe you!"

He looked into her face, and his own kindled strangely. "I will say nothing but that I love you—I love you—I love you! Today that is enough between us, Kate. Let the rest go—the honour and glory of the world, the commission, and all besides. Today we belong to each other; tomorrow we sing of peace on earth, goodwill toward men. Let that suffice us; let us forget the rest. We will be happy together in our love, and in love to all mankind. After that we must think again of these things. Afterwards thoughts of war and strife must have their place; but for once let love be lord of our lives. After that storm and strife—and Quebec!"



Book 5: Within Quebec.

Chapter 1: The Impregnable City.

Within a lofty chamber, with narrow windows and walls of massive thickness, stood a young, bright-haired girl, looking with dreamy eyes across the wide waters of the great St. Lawrence, as it rolled its majestic course some hundreds of feet below. Although that mighty waterway narrowed as it passed the rocky promontory upon which the city of Quebec was built, it was even there a wonderful river; and looking westward, as the girl was doing, it seemed to spread out before her eyes like a veritable sea. It was dotted with ships of various dimensions bringing in supplies, or news of coming help or peril—news of that great armament from distant England, perhaps, whose approach was being awaited by all within the city with a sense of intense expectancy, not entirely unmixed with fear.

True, the soldiers laughed to scorn the idea of any attack upon Quebec. It stood upon its rocky tongue of land, frowning and unassailable, as it seemed to them. All along the north bank of the lower river the French were throwing up earthworks and intrenching their army, to hinder any attempt at landing troops there; and the guns of the town batteries would soon sink and destroy any vessel rash enough to try to pass the town, and gain a footing upon the shores above. Indeed, so frowning and precipitous were these that nature herself seemed to be sufficient guard.

"Let the English come, and see what welcome we have got for them!" was a favourite exclamation from soldiers and townsfolk; yet all the same there was anxiety in the faces of those who watched daily for the first approach of the English sails. Had not Louisbourg said the same, and yet had fallen before English hardihood and resolution? Those in the highest places in this Canadian capital best knew the rotten condition into which her affairs had fallen. The corruption amongst officials, the jealousy between Governor and General, the crafty self seeking of the Intendant—these and a hundred other things were enough to cause much anxiety at headquarters. The grand schemes of the French for acquiring a whole vast continent were fast dwindling down to the anxious hope of being able to keep what they already possessed.

The girl gazing forth from the narrow window was turning over in her mind the things that she had heard. Her fair face was grave, yet it was bright, too, and as she threw out her hand towards the vista of the great river rolling its mighty volume of water towards the sea, she suddenly exclaimed:

"And what if they do come? what if they do conquer? Have we not deserved it? have we not brought ruin upon our own heads by the wickedness and cruelty we have made our allies? And if England's flag should one day wave over the fortress of Quebec, as it now does over that of Louisbourg, what is that to me? Have I not English—or Scotch—blood in my veins? Am I not as much English as French? I sometimes think that, had I my choice, England would be the country where I should best love to dwell. It is the land of freedom—all say that, even my good uncle, who knows so well. I love freedom; I love what is noble and great. Sometimes I feel in my heart that England will be the greatest country of the world."

Her eyes glowed; she stretched forth her hands in a speaking gesture. The waters of the great river seemed to flash back an answer. Cooped up within frowning walls, amid the buildings of the fortress and upper town, Corinne felt sometimes like a bird in a prison cage; and yet the life fascinated her, with its constant excitements, its military environment, its atmosphere of coming danger. She did not want to leave Quebec till the struggle between the nations had been fought out. And yet she scarcely knew which side she wished to see win. French though her training had been of late years, yet her childhood had been spent in the stormy north, amid an English-speaking people. She had seen much that disgusted and saddened her here amongst the French of Canada. She despised the aged libertine who still sat upon the French throne with all the scorn and disgust of an ardent nature full of noble impulses.

"I hate to call myself his subject!" she had been known to say. "I will be free to choose to which nation I will belong. I have the right to call myself English if I choose."

Not that Corinne very often gave way to such open demonstrations of her national independence, It was to her aunt, Madame Drucour, with whom she was now making a home, that she indulged these little rhapsodies, secure of a certain amount of indulgence and even sympathy from that lady, who had reason to think and speak well of English gallantry and chivalry.

Madame Drucour occupied a small house wedged in amongst the numerous strongly-built houses and ecclesiastical buildings of the upper town of Quebec. The house had been deserted by its original occupants upon the first news of the fall of Louisbourg. Many of the inhabitants of Quebec had taken fright at that, and had sailed for France; and Madame Drucour had been placed here by her husband, who himself was wanted in other quarters to repel English advances. The lady had been glad to summon to her side her niece Corinne, who, since the state of the country had become so disturbed, had been placed by her father and uncle in the Convent of the Ursulines, under the charge of the good nuns there.

Corinne had been fond of the nuns; but the life of the cloister was little to her taste. She was glad enough to escape from its monotony, and to make her home with her father's sister. Madame Drucour could tell her the most thrilling and delightful stories of the siege of Louisbourg. Already she felt to know a great deal about war in general and sieges in particular. She often experienced a thrill of pride and delight in the thought that she herself was about to be a witness of a siege of which all the world would be talking.

As she stood at the window today, a footstep rang through the quiet house below, and suddenly the door of the little chamber was flung wide open.

"Corinne!" cried a ringing voice which she well knew.

She turned round with a little cry of joy.

"Colin!" she cried, and the next minute brother and sister were locked in a fervent embrace.

"O Colin, Colin, when did you come, and whence?"

"Just this last hour, and from Montreal," he answered. "Oh, what strange adventures I have seen since last we met! Corinne, there have been times when I thought never to see you again! I have so much to say I know not where to begin. I have seen our triumphs, and I have seen our defeat. Corinne, it is as our uncle said. There is a great man now at the helm in England, and we are feeling his power out here in the West."

"Do you think the tide has turned against the French arms?" asked Corinne breathlessly.

"What else can I think? Has not Fort Frontenac fallen? Has not Fort Duquesne been abandoned before the advancing foe? Our realm in the west is cut away from Canada in the north. If we cannot reunite them, our power is gone. And they say that Ticonderoga and Crown Point will be the next to fall. The English are massing upon Lake George. They have commanders of a different calibre now. Poor Ticonderoga! I grew to love it well. I spent many a happy month there. But what can we do to save it, threatened as we are now by the English fleet in the great St. Lawrence itself?"

"Are they not brave, these English?" cried Corinne, with an enthusiasm of admiration in her face and voice. "Colin, I am glad, oh very glad, that you and I are not all French. We can admire our gallant foes without fear of disloyalty to our blood. We have cause to know how gallant and chivalrous they can be."

Colin's eyes lighted with eager pleasure.

"You remember that day in the forest, Corinne, and how we were protected by English Rangers from hurt?"

"Ah, do I not! And I have heard, too, from our Aunt Drucour, of their kindness and generosity to a conquered army—"

But she stopped, and waited for her brother to speak, as she saw that he had more to say.

"You remember the big, tall Ranger, whose name was Fritz?" he said eagerly.

"Yes, I remember him well."

"He is here—in Quebec—in this house at this very minute! He and I have travelled from Montreal with my uncle."

Corinne's eyes were bright with eager interest.

Ah, Colin! is that truly so? And how came that about? You travelling with an English Ranger!"

"Yes, truly, and we owe our lives to his valour and protection. It is strange how Dame Fortune has thrown us across each other's path times and again during these past few short years. First, he saved us from attack in the forest. You need not that I should tell you more of that, Corinne. Afterwards, some few of us from Ticonderoga saved the lives of him and of a few other Rangers who had fallen into the hands of the Indians after that defeat at Fort William Henry, which had scattered them far and wide. We felt such shame at the way our Indian allies had behaved, and at the little protection given to the prisoners of war by our Canadian troops, that we were glad to show kindness and hospitality to the wanderers, Rangers though they were; and when I recognized Fritz, I was the more glad. He was wounded and ill, and we nursed him to health ere we sent him away. After that it was long before we met again, and then he came to our succour when we were in the same peril from Indians as he had been himself the year before."

"From Indians? O brother!" and Corinne shuddered, for she had that horror of the red-skinned race which comes to those who have seen and heard of their cruelties and treachery from those who have dwelt amongst them.

"Yes, you must know, Corinne, that in the west, where our uncle goes with the word of life and truth, the Indians are already wavering, and are disposed to return to their past friendship with the English. They are wonderfully cunning and far-seeing. They seem to have that same instinct as men say that rats possess, and are eager to leave the sinking ship, or to join themselves to the winning side, whichever way you like to put it. Since we have seen misfortune they have begun to change towards us. We cannot trust them out in the west. They are becoming sullen, if not hostile. A very little and they will turn upon us with savage fury—at least if they are not withheld from it by the English themselves."

Corinne's cheek flushed; she flung back her head with an indescribable gesture.

"And I believe the English will withhold them. To our shame be it spoken, the French have made use of them. They have stooped to a warfare which makes civilized man shudder with horror. England will not use such methods; I am sure of it, And she will prosper where we have failed; for God in the heavens rules the nations upon earth, and He will not suffer such wickedness to continue forever. If France in the west falls, she falls rather by her own act than by that of her foes."

"That is what my uncle says," answered Colin earnestly; "it is what he has striven all along to impress upon our leaders, but without avail. He has been seeking, too, to show to the Indians themselves the evil of their wicked practices. He has never been afraid of them; he has always been their friend. But the day came when they would no longer listen to him; when they drove us forth with hatred and malice; when there came into their faces that which made me more afraid than anything I have ever faced in my life before, Corinne. We dared not stay. The chief dismissed us and bid us be gone quickly, whilst he could still hold his people in check. He did not wish harm to come to us; but savage blood is hard to check.

"We got away from the village, and hoped the danger was over. We made our way as well as we could towards Montreal. But our uncle was weak; he had had several attacks of fever. One day he could not travel. That night we were set upon by a score of wandering Indians. They would not listen to our words, We were white men, that was enough. All white men were their enemies, they said. They would roast us alive first and eat us afterwards, they declared,"

"O Colin!" cried Corinne, with widely-dilated eyes.

"Yes; I can see their eyes now, rolling and gleaming. They began collecting light brushwood around the upright stakes they drove into the ground. They laughed and yelled, and sprang about with frightful contortions. They were working themselves up as they do before they set to one of their frightful pieces of work. Our uncle called me to him, and we prayed together. At least he prayed, and I tried to follow his words; but I could do nothing but watch those awful preparations. Then suddenly a shout arose from the forest hard by, and the Indians seized their weapons. We sent up a shout, caring little whether it was answered by English or French. We knew that what we had heard was no Indian whoop; it came from the throats of white men.

"Next minute a body of Rangers had dashed amongst us. The Indians fled, scattering right and left like chaff before the wind. Next minute I distinguished the friendly face of Fritz. He was kneeling beside our uncle, and asking him tenderly if he were hurt."

"The same Fritz as saved us in the forest! Oh, I am glad it was he!"

"So was I; and doubly glad when I found that he knew more about the cure of these forest fevers than even our uncle himself. The Rangers made a hut for us, and for three days Fritz doctored our uncle, till he was almost well again. But they would not leave us in the forest, with the bands of treacherous Indians prowling around. They escorted us to within a short distance of Montreal itself, and Fritz consented to come into the city as our guest; and since he speaks French almost as well as English, he was a welcome guest to all. He became so much attached to my uncle that he consented to come with us to Quebec. For he is anxious to join the English squadron when it reaches these waters, and my uncle gave him his word of honour that no hindrance shall be placed in the way of his doing so. Perhaps it may be even well for one who has seen the extreme strength of the town, and the preparations made for its defence by land and sea, to go to warn the bold invaders that the task they contemplate is one which is well nigh if not quite impossible."

"O Colin, it is good indeed to have you again, out of the very jaws of death! Let me go myself and thank this noble Fritz for his good offices. Colin, I fear me I am half a traitor to the cause of France already; for there is that in my heart which bids me regard the English as friends rather than as foes. And when I hear men shake their heads and say that they may one day be the masters of these broad lands of the west, it raises within me no feeling of anger or grief. I cannot be a true daughter of France to feel so!"

"And yet I share that feeling, Corinne. I often feel that I am less than half a Frenchman! My good uncle sometimes shakes his head over me; but then he smiles, and says that the mother's blood always runs strong in the firstborn son; and methinks, had our mother lived, she would have been on the side of those who speak her tongue and hail from the grey lands of the north."