The little dwelling of Pere Hypolite was at no great distance from the convent, and the baroness soon reached the small but exquisite garden, in which she found the priest busily engaged in planting out his choice flowers for the summer. A little later in the year and those flowers would outshine even the gay and splendid costume in which the baroness had hastily quitted the Chateau de Beaujardin. The unwonted appearance of a lady in such brilliant attire at once attracted the attention of Pere Hypolite, who bowed respectfully as she approached him.

"You are Father Hypolite, the cure of St. Sulpice—is it not so?" said she. The old man bowed assent. "I have come to tell you that the marriage you were to have solemnised cannot take place to-day."

Pere Hypolite looked somewhat surprised.

"The marriage!" said he. "I do not quite understand your ladyship."

"I mean the marriage of Mademoiselle Lacroix and a gentleman of rank who was to come here for the purpose," rejoined the lady. "The Lady Superior told me that you had been directed to hold yourself in readiness to perform the rite."

"The marriage of Mademoiselle Lacroix!" replied the priest, apparently amazed. "There must be some mistake. I did receive the directions of the Lady Superior, and the marriage took place this morning."

"This morning! Are you mad?" retorted the baroness. "What marriage?"

"The marriage of Mademoiselle Lacroix with the young Marquis de Beaujardin, who came here to St. Sulpice for the purpose."

"Fool! idiot! do you know what you are saying? There has been no marriage at the convent to-day. Are you mad?"

"Pardon me, madame," replied the priest, with dignity. "Even your ladyship's rank, whoever you may be, cannot excuse such expressions towards one of my holy calling. What I have told you is the simple truth. Little as I like these hasty and irregular proceedings, you must be well aware that one in my humble position must needs do the bidding of those who have a right to dictate to him in such matters. The persons I have named to you were married by me this morning soon after daybreak at the chapel of St. Sulpice."

For a little while Madame de Valricour seemed utterly confounded. As soon as she regained her self-control she demanded of the priest a full account of what had occurred.

"It was simply thus," said he. "Quite early this morning Colonel de Beaujardin, whom I know of course by sight, came to me, and, not without some agitation, told me that he wished to speak to me as to the possibility of his being united to Mademoiselle Lacroix, who had come to the village under circumstances of peculiar difficulty arising out of some family differences. I told him that I had already received directions respecting the marriage of Mademoiselle Lacroix on her arrival here, though of course I knew nothing of the private matters to which he alluded, and that it was not for me to enter into them. He seemed somewhat astonished."

"No doubt. I should think so indeed," muttered the baroness between her teeth. "What next?"

"I assumed, as a matter of course, that the family desired the marriage to be kept secret on account of the disparity in the rank of the young people; but this was no business of mine, and I simply asked him whether I should repair to the convent, and at what hour. He then told me that it was his wish that the marriage should be solemnised, not at the convent, but at our little chapel here, adding that he would arrange, if possible, to meet me there in an hour's time. He did so, and the marriage took place in the presence of Michel Greboeuf and his wife. I have nothing more to add."

"You have said enough, in all conscience," ejaculated the baroness, passionately. "But you shall pay dearly for this, miserable creature!" and with these words the enraged lady hurried away, leaving the good old priest as thunderstruck as she herself had been but a few short minutes since.

Inquiring of the first person whom she met the way to Michel Greboeuf's house, Madame de Valricour at once bent her steps thither, and soon reached the spot. Anything more miserable and dilapidated than Greboeuf's cottage could hardly be conceived, though it was perhaps no worse than the dwellings of most people of his class in France at that time. Michel was standing at the door, and a very small exercise of Madame de Valricour's powers was required in order to obtain from him the fullest corroboration of all she had heard from Father Hypolite.

"Though, to be sure," continued the simple-hearted peasant, who was quite won over by the gracious condescension of so grand a personage, "I think the young gentleman did not come here intending at first to marry the lady, but only to leave her for a time under our poor roof; but when they saw what a place it was they were in a great taking, as you may suppose, and he went down to Father Hypolite to talk about it, as I told him that the good man was always ready to help anybody in distress; and sure enough he came back presently and said they were to be married at once. The poor young lady was in a terrible way about it, I can tell you, madame. However, we all went down together to the chapel, and that is how it came about."

"What! are they still here then?" asked Madame de Valricour, eagerly.

"O dear, no!" replied Greboeuf. "Our poor place is not fit for the like of them, for I assure you, madame, I think they be quite gentle folks."

"Poor place indeed! I should think so. What on earth could ever have brought them here?"

"Why, you see, madame, a cousin of mine, a M. Perigord, who is employed at the Chateau de Beaujardin, sent them here to me, and asked me to do anything I could to help them; and I would give the last drop of my blood to serve my cousin Perigord, for we should all have perished long ago but for his kindness. He kept us alive all last winter, when things were so bad. Ah, madame, you great folks don't know what the poor people suffer. We had no fuel and had to lie a-bed to warm ourselves, till we were obliged to get rid even of our beds and last bits of furniture for a mouthful of bread. But my cousin heard of it and helped us. As for those who haven't got such a friend, what with crown taxes, duties, fines, tolls, and forced labour on the roads, manorial dues, seigneurial rights, and I don't know how many more heart-vexing imposts and exactions besides, there's nothing left to subsist upon; and that's hard when one hears how grandly all the great folks live, and never lift a finger to keep the poor from starving."

"But where have they gone?" inquired the lady, eagerly.

"Well, madame, I took them on to the next village, where the gentleman got a good horse, and presently rode away with his young wife on a pillion behind him. They have gone to Nantes, where a brother of my cousin Perigord keeps an inn on the Quai La Fosse."

It was not long before Madame de Valricour was closeted with de Crillon, who had by this time arrived at the convent.

"We have come too late," said she, bitterly, after describing her interviews with the cure and Greboeuf.

De Crillon shrugged his shoulders. "I presume, then," said he, "that there is nothing more to be done."

"Nothing more!" retorted the lady, impetuously. "We have all the clue we want, and you have with you the king's lettre de cachet. I care not what becomes of her, so long as she is safely placed where she will not trouble us any more; but mind, M. de Crillon, no harm is to come to my nephew."

De Crillon smiled. "Ah," said he, "I am to dispose of the young lady, so that Monsieur Isidore may come back and some day marry Mademoiselle Clotilde?"

"That was not spoken with M. de Crillon's usual acuteness," replied the baroness. "Isidore is more likely in his anger and disappointment to betake himself anywhere else than to Beaujardin, and in any case you know that he is now married, and cannot wed Clotilde."

"Well, then," said he, "I fail to see the drift of madame's proposal."

"What!" exclaimed the baroness; "do you know so little what a woman is as to suppose that I could ever brook seeing this upstart come to Beaujardin as Isidore's wife, to lord it over me, after I have had every one there at my beck and call for a score of years past? Think you I could live to be tolerated by that child when she came to be mistress of Beaujardin? Never! Listen to me," said she. "You have played your part well enough till now, and I engage that, on my return to Beaujardin, I will obtain for you from the marquis the dowry you would have had with Mademoiselle Lacroix but for the accident which you could not help. That is but fair. But it must be on the condition that this hateful girl shall trouble me no more. I know well enough, monsieur, that it will be no disappointment to you to touch the dowry without being obliged to take the bride with it. Nay, more, I will add that, if things should so fall out that Isidore should fail to inherit Beaujardin, and Clotilde should become her uncle's heiress, it will be for you to win her hand if you can, and thus some day become the owner of that noble inheritance. Of course, not a word must be breathed at Beaujardin about this marriage. I have nothing more to say; it is for you to do the rest."

Within an hour Monsieur de Crillon had started off in pursuit of the fugitives, and the great unwieldy family coach, with Clotilde and her mother inside of it, and two of de Crillon's myrmidons acting as escort, was rolling along, like some great ship at sea, and ploughing up the miry roads, on its way back to the Chateau of Valricour.



CHAPTER VIII.

On the following afternoon, after giving Madame de Bleury strict injunctions to keep a watchful eye on the movements of mademoiselle, the baroness repaired to the Chateau de Beaujardin for the purpose of making the marquis acquainted with so much of what had recently transpired as it was desirable that he should know. This was a business requiring considerable tact and discretion. She had found little difficulty in persuading him that it was of the highest importance to break off the intimacy between his son and Marguerite, and he had readily consented to give such an amount as might induce M. de Crillon, or any one else, to marry the girl, and thus effectually save Isidore from such a mesalliance. After promising the dowry the marquis had indeed felt somewhat vexed with himself at not having asked her for a little more information as to the means by which she intended to carry out her plans and how Mademoiselle Lacroix was to be induced to agree to them. He always rather liked Marguerite, and even the high crime of endeavouring to inveigle his son and heir into a marriage so infinitely beneath his station could not quite stifle a feeling of pity for her. But it would have seemed so vacillating and so mistrustful to question Madame de Valricour's discretion that he had thought it best to let matters take their course, and this now relieved the baroness from the necessity of much troublesome explanation. She accordingly said nothing whatever about the way in which Clotilde had been entrapped and carried off, nor did she mention a word about her own proceedings at St. Sulpice, but confined herself to informing the marquis that Isidore had fled with Marguerite, and that she had left it to M. de Crillon to follow up the fugitives, and endeavour to bring Isidore to reason, and persuade him to return to Beaujardin.

The marquis was of course most indignant at so flagrant an act on the part of his son, declaring that he would disinherit him and never see him again; and Madame de Valricour returned home well satisfied with her interview, to await, though not without some anxiety, such tidings as she might receive from M. de Crillon in the course of a few days.

She had, however, scarcely left Beaujardin when some one else sought an interview with the marquis. This was Monsieur Perigord, who, after being admitted into his master's presence, began, with much agitation, by imploring him to interfere in an affair of the most terrible importance. The marquis, who was well acquainted with the excitable disposition of his old chef de cuisine, supposed that some slight had been put upon him by the inferior domestics, or perhaps even by M. Boulederouloue himself, so he kindly told the old man that he would take care to see him righted if he would only be calm and say what was the matter.

"Calm, my master!" exclaimed Perigord, throwing himself at the feet of his patron; "who could be calm when such dreadful things are happening? Ah, monsieur, it is not for my poor self that I come to you; it is to plead for my unhappy young master, who, if you do not take some steps, will fall a victim to a most horrible scheme."

"Are you mad, Perigord?" said the marquis, somewhat irritated at such an interference in his domestic affairs by a person of that kind. "What silly nonsense is this?"

"It is no silly nonsense, monsieur. If you will but deign to listen to me I can prove beyond doubt that a dreadful plot, of which you cannot be aware, threatens not only poor Monsieur Isidore's happiness, but his very life—that madame the baroness, before she came back from St. Sulpice yesterday, sent off M. de Crillon with a lettre de cachet to Nantes, whither the young marquis has gone with his bride. Ah, monsieur, those terrible lettres de cachet! You know, we all know, what they mean. Alas, alas! my poor young master! He is lost if you will not save him."

Just for a moment the marquis fancied that all this might be only an exaggeration of the simple facts which he already knew; but Madame de Valricour had said nothing to him of having been at St. Sulpice, nothing about an actual marriage, nothing about a lettre de cachet even against Marguerite, much less against his own son. He began to be troubled.

"My good Perigord," said he, "I am afraid your zeal has outrun your discretion, but I can pardon you even if your attachment to me and mine has led you into some little extravagance. The thing can, however, be soon tested. How do you know that the baroness has been at St. Sulpice? Have you anything to show that your story about my son's marriage is not a mere idle rumour? How can you know anything about the lettre de cachet that you talk of?" And as he asked the questions the marquis quite regained his usual calmness and self-possession, which had for a moment been disturbed.

Monsieur Perigord was ready with his proofs; and with his master's permission forthwith summoned Michel Greboeuf, who had come to the chateau an hour since. Not only was he able to describe his own conversation with Madame de Valricour, from which her presence at St. Sulpice and her knowledge of the marriage at once became evident, but he stated that he had met at the little village inn a strange man who over his cups had let out that he was in the employ of a M. de Crillon, and that they were looking out for a youngster of quality, who would soon find out to his cost that his master had in his pocket a little document with the signature of His Most Christian Majesty, which would provide him with a lodging for life, if even worse did not befall him.

In spite of his agitation, the marquis succeeded in commanding himself so far as to be able to question Greboeuf more than once respecting the circumstances he had narrated; but the more he questioned the more clear it became that he was telling the truth. At best, Madame de Valricour's concealment of many things that must have been within her knowledge, and which Isidore's father had the most undoubted right to know, showed that she was deceiving him. Most of all his mind dwelt on the fact that she had learned that Isidore had fled to Nantes, whereas she had professed complete ignorance as to his whereabouts. With as much composure as he could assume the marquis dismissed Greboeuf with a handsome reward, and now turning to Perigord, said, "But even if we are sure that they have gone to Nantes, what clue have we as to where they may be lodged?"

"They have gone to my brother, Jean Perigord, who keeps an inn on the Quai La Fosse called the 'Great Gun.'"

"Can your brother be trusted?" asked Monsieur de Beaujardin, somewhat anxiously.

"He is as true as steel, monseigneur," was the reply, "yet so simple that a child may cheat him—so much the worse for him, poor fellow!"

"Sit down and write to him as I shall dictate," said the marquis.

Perigord did so, and his master read over what he had written. "You have been an attached and faithful servant to me, Perigord," said the marquis, "and you have now done to me and mine a service which I shall certainly never forget," and with these words he took the old man's hand and grasped it with undisguised emotion.

"Ah, monseigneur, you are too good, too condescending to one so humble as myself," exclaimed the old chef, the tears running down his cheeks as he spoke. "But you have deigned to listen to me. Yes, you will go to him—you will save my poor young master—is it not so?"

The marquis did not answer, but Perigord knew by the look his old master gave him that he had not spoken in vain.

Great was the surprise of everybody at the chateau when, soon after these interviews, Monsieur de Beaujardin gave orders that horses should be got ready by daybreak on the following morning, as he was about to make a journey. The marchioness flew to her husband to inquire the reason of such unusual orders, but he would tell her no more than that some business called him away, and that he should be absent for a week at least. He knew that anything he might tell her would soon be wormed out of her by the baroness, which in the present case might prove most undesirable. There were, however, others at the chateau who knew their own interests too well to let Madame de Valricour remain in ignorance of what was passing. Again she went to the marquis, but he refused to see her, and even sent so strange a message to her that she augured at once that something was going wrong, though what it was she could not ascertain.

In due time the travelling equipage was at the door, but as the marquis was stepping into it he was informed that his valet, Francois, without whom he never went half a dozen miles away from Beaujardin, had been suddenly taken ill and could not possibly attend his master on the journey. What was to be done? Despite his usual philosophic calmness, the marquis stamped with vexation, and stood irresolute on the great steps of the chateau, undecided whether he should start without the valet or wait till he got better.

"What is the matter with the fellow, Jasmin?" said he, as the latter appeared, bringing with him the travelling cloak, in order to deposit it in the coach.

"It is a fever, monsieur," replied Jasmin, bowing, "nay, it may be worse. Heaven send it be not the small-pox."

The marquis looked aghast. "I must go, there is no help for it," said he. "Louis must attend me instead."

"I will fetch him instantly," said Jasmin; but in five minutes he returned with the intelligence that Louis was not to be found, high or low.

"Then I must go alone," exclaimed the marquis, irritably, "I cannot wait. Stay, you have nothing to do, Jasmin, you can go with me."

"Monsieur honours me," replied Jasmin, with a bow. "If monsieur will step in and proceed, I will follow without delay, and overtake the carriage in a short quarter of an hour."

So the marquis entered the vehicle, saying to himself, "This is a useful fellow—ready at a moment. I am not likely to miss Francois. Indeed, I may find poor Isidore's man more useful to me as matters stand."

Jasmin was as good as his word, and soon joined the equipage, which proceeded on its journey. They then travelled with as much speed as circumstances would allow, and reached Nantes on the following day just as it was growing dusk, and put up at the great hotel of the place. Immediately on their arrival, and before Jasmin had had time even to change his travelling dress and heavy riding boots, he was summoned by the marquis, who told him to repair at once to the inn kept by Jean Perigord on the Quai La Fosse, and to desire the landlord to come to him without a moment's delay at the Hotel du Roi.

The first thing which the valet did, however, was to read a letter which Monsieur de Beaujardin gave to him to hand to Perigord. It ran as follows:—

"MY GOOD BROTHER,

"The Marquis de Beaujardin, my master, is about to proceed to Nantes on some business in which, as I am informed, you will be able to assist him. Render him all the aid in your power, and do not hesitate to give him any information you can, as the affair is one deeply concerning the honour and welfare of the whole family, to which, as you know, I have been so long and so devotedly attached.

"Always your loving Brother, "ACHILLE PERIGORD."

Having made himself master of the contents of this letter, Jasmin wrapped himself in his cloak, for the wind was keen and the weather looked threatening, and sallied forth from the hotel. But he did not go straight to Jean Perigord's. On the way he stopped at another inn called the Hotel Turenne, where he inquired whether a certain M. de Crillon had yet arrived there. He was answered in the affirmative, and was presently shown into a saloon, where he found de Crillon, to whom he forthwith communicated the circumstances which had brought him thither with the marquis, showing him at the same time the letter from old Achille. The conference was short, and M. de Crillon concluded it by saying, "I suspected they would go to Maitre Jean's, and try to get away in some vessel sailing from this port, and my men are already on the look-out near the house. If, with the aid of this note, you can bring them here, or entice them on to the quay, the business is done." With these instructions, Jasmin once more set out.

It had now become dark, and he found the quay a very long one. He had traversed nearly the whole length of it without coming upon the "Great Gun," when he saw a sailor lounging under one of the trees that lined the road, and asked him if the inn was anywhere near.

"What! Jean Perigord's house?" answered the man. "O yes; I thought every one knew the 'Great Gun.' Come along, I will show it to you."

In a couple of minutes they reached the house. It was still open; a lamp was burning over the door, and there stood Jean Perigord himself, apparently looking out for some one. The sailor touched his hat and asked Jasmin for a trifle; the latter told the landlord to give the man something to drink, and they entered the house together. The man then tossed off his glass and left them alone.

"I will not ask if you are Jean Perigord," said Jasmin, as they entered the little parlour, "you are so like our honest old Achille. I have come to you on a delicate and most important matter; but first of all read this," and he handed to the innkeeper the letter from his brother, which he read with evident astonishment and perturbation.

"Now listen to me," continued Jasmin. "There is no time for beating round the bush. What about two young persons sent to you by your cousin Michel Greboeuf, of St. Sulpice?"

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed Jean, in great agitation. "Do you know that they are here?"

"Of course," replied Jasmin. "When did they come?"

"Early this afternoon," said the innkeeper; "but I was not to say a word about it."

"Are they within?"

"She is; but he went out a couple of hours ago and hired a boat to take him to one of the vessels lying in the river. Ah! I thought, in spite of their being dressed like common country folk, they must be something more than they seemed. But," added he, abruptly, "I don't know why I should tell you all this."

"Nay, my good fellow," rejoined Jasmin, in his blandest way, "surely the word of our good old Achille is enough."

Jean glanced hastily at the letter as if to reassure himself, and then a thought seemed suddenly to strike him.

"Stay. Mercy on us!" said he, stepping back a little, "is it possible? Yes, I see—of course you are monseigneur the marquis. How could I be so stupid? Ah, monsieur," he added, "I can only be too glad to——"

"Hush!" cried Jasmin, interrupting him. "We are watched. Do you not see?"

And, sure enough, following the direction of Jasmin's eyes, Jean did see the man who had brought his visitor there emerge noiselessly from a dark corner near the open door and steal away into the street.

"Quick," said Jasmin, "go to her at once. Tell her all is well, but that she must come instantly to the Hotel Turenne."

"But she will never come without him," cried Jean, pleadingly.

"Tell her that you will bring her husband to her the moment he returns; but that if she delays, he will be lost. I will go on first and see that the way is clear."

With these words Monsieur Jasmin drew his cloak about him and disappeared. For a few moments poor Jean stood utterly bewildered, but the thought of the danger aroused him, and he hurried up-stairs to the chamber where Marguerite was sitting, anxiously awaiting her husband's return.

In a few hasty words, and not a little excited by his mission, the landlord bade her get ready and follow him at once, adding that a good friend had come to aid them, and that she and her husband would soon be safe. At first she hesitated, but on his urgent assurance that she had nothing to fear, she forthwith put on her hood and accompanied him down the stairs, and they quitted the house.

They had proceeded about a hundred yards, and had just reached a part of the quay where some stone steps led down to a landing-place, when Jean heard footsteps behind him. He stopped and turned round, and was instantly seized and thrown to the ground, his assailant whispering to him as he held him down with a grasp like that of a vice, "Keep quiet, good Master Jean. This business does not concern you, and you shall be set free in a minute or two."

Jean Perigord had too brave a heart for that, however, and he struggled to get loose. He succeeded in raising himself a little, but it was only to hear a shriek, and to see the unhappy girl borne past him by two men, who carried her down the steps and placed her in a boat that lay at the landing-place. The next moment he saw two other men carrying past him what seemed to be the figure of a man struggling in the folds of a cloak that had apparently been thrown over him. The muffled form was thrown into the same boat, which was then instantly shoved off.

"Now, my good Jean," said the man, as he let go his hold of the innkeeper, "just go home and keep your tongue quiet—it will be best for you. I shall have an eye on you, and if you blab about what you have seen, why you will stand a good chance of sharing the same fate as your friends yonder. They have been arrested under the king's lettre de cachet, and if you meddle in the matter you are a dead man."

Half an hour later Monsieur de Crillon received the report of his chief employe, which was to the effect that the young marquis had been overheard whilst discovering himself to Jean Perigord, and that he and the young female who had previously reached the "Great Gun" had been seized and conveyed to the prison of Bouffay, where they awaited Monsieur de Crillon's further orders. "Let the horses be got ready and brought round at once," was the reply, and his follower retired to give directions accordingly.

In the meanwhile Jean Perigord had returned to his house in dire dismay at what had taken place, and his anxiety was heightened, if that were possible, by the reflection that he had very likely been made the means of decoying poor Marguerite into a trap. He could not help fearing, moreover, that the figure he had seen carried past him and thrown into the boat had been that of the poor young fellow her husband, who had doubtless been captured on the quay as he was landing. Without a thought about closing his house as usual, he threw himself into a chair and groaned aloud. What was he to do? Now he resolved to seek out the Marquis de Beaujardin at the Hotel Turenne; now again he shrank from such a step as he remembered that terrible injunction to keep silence about the matter. He was, however, suddenly aroused from his rueful reflections by the sound of hasty footsteps in the passage, and had scarcely had time to rise from his chair when there stood before him a young man, in the garb of a peasant indeed, but whose face and figure, to say nothing of his language and manner, were little in accordance with his homely apparel.

"You will be glad to hear, honest Jean," said he, "that I have managed it all, and have succeeded in taking passages in a ship that sails to-morrow morning. I must go and bring down my poor young wife at once, as I have kept my boat waiting to take us off to the ship. I can never repay you for your kindness, but——" Here he stopped short, and then added in some surprise: "How now, my good friend! you look as if you had seen a ghost."

That was, indeed, just what Jean himself was thinking at that moment. "Heaven have mercy on us!" he ejaculated. "Is it you? It cannot be."

"Are you ill, or crazy, or else what is the matter?" cried Isidore. "Has anything befallen her?" he added, as Jean stood there before him wringing his hands. Isidore was about to rush up-stairs, but the landlord grasped his arm and stopped him, and then in hurried and broken sentences he related to him what had occurred during his absence.

Incoherent as the narrative was, it sufficed to tell Isidore only too plainly what had happened; yet he could at first scarcely realise it all. Trembling with agitation, he pressed the innkeeper with question after question till nothing more remained to be told. "What could I do," cried Jean, despairingly, "when monseigneur the marquis himself—if, indeed, it was he—told me you would be all safe if I took her at once to the Hotel Turenne?"

"The marquis himself!" cried Isidore. "Are you mad? I will not believe it. What was he like—how old?"

"Perhaps a little older than yourself. I supposed, of course, that it was the young marquis, of whom my brother has often spoken to me."

"The young marquis! There is some horrible treachery in all this; but I will find it out, cost what it will. At the Hotel Turenne, did you say?"

Jean nodded an affirmative, and before he could add another word Isidore had rushed out of the house.

Dark as it was, he managed to find his way, after many inquiries, to the Hotel Turenne. As he reached the door two mounted men with a led horse came up; the master of the house and two or three of the hotel servants with lights were standing in the hall.

"Is the Marquis de Beaujardin staying here?" asked Isidore, abruptly.

"No, he is not," answered, the hotel-keeper; "but he came to the Hotel du Roi this afternoon; you will find him there. Stand aside."

At this moment a gentleman in a riding suit, and booted and spurred, passed through the hall and descended the steps, accompanied by the landlord, who officiously held the stirrup as he mounted.

"Stay," said he, bending forward and addressing the hotel-keeper in an undertone, "should a person named Jasmin come again, you will tell him that I am obliged by his assistance, which has been quite successful. Should he not return, send this message to him to-morrow at the Hotel du Roi; he is in the suite of the Marquis de Beaujardin." With these words the speaker put spurs to his horse and galloped off, followed by his attendants.

Isidore had not seen the speaker's face indeed, but he knew that voice only too well. What! had his own father then come there in league with de Crillon to hunt her down so relentlessly? Had they even employed his own discharged menial to personate him and entrap her? With his brows knit and his teeth set close, he bent his steps in the direction of the Hotel du Roi, but he had not gone far before he stopped; then, after considering for a minute or two, he turned and made his way almost mechanically to the Quai La Fosse.

The landlord was standing at the door, peering anxiously out into the darkness, but Isidore passed him without notice, and hurrying by into the little parlour threw himself into a chair; there, burying his face in his hands, he gave way for the first time, and broke into a passionate outburst of grief and despair.

Perigord stood near him for a while, not daring to intrude on his distress; but at last he approached him timidly, and laying his hand on his shoulder tried to calm and soothe him. Then, growing bolder, he began to implore him at least to try and save his own life. But Isidore seemed not to heed him. "His own life! What was life to him now—now that he had lost all that seemed to him to make life worth preserving?"

"For the poor young creature's sake," continued Jean, the tears running down his cheeks, "save yourself. Perhaps you may yet find some one; surely there must be some one who may have the power to help you to try and rescue her." As he said this, poor Jean shuddered at the thought of those terrible words about the lettre de cachet.

Perhaps the innkeeper's words reminded Isidore that his uncle, the Baron de Valricour, or possibly the Marquis de Montcalm himself, might yet do something for him, if indeed anything could be done. At all events it was useless to hope for aid from anyone in France. Somewhat to the honest innkeeper's surprise, he suddenly arose, and speaking with a calmness and dignity which quite awed the would-be comforter, he said, "You are right, good friend. I take shame to myself for showing such weakness. Yes, there are those who may still help me, if it be God's will; and if they can, I know they will not shrink from doing so. For the kindness which would have sheltered and assisted us, I can never repay you, but I can never forget it. Farewell! It is best for you that you should not even know my name. The boat that is waiting yonder shall take me back to the ship alone," he added, with a groan. "Ah, if ever I visit France again——"

He could say no more, but he grasped honest Jean's hand and left the house. The landlord hurried after him, but it was only to see him descend the steps of the quay and enter the boat, which, in a minute or two, was lost in the darkness.



PART III

THE FALL OF NEW FRANCE.



THE FALL OF NEW FRANCE.

CHAPTER I.

The Canadian summer has set in, coming upon the land, not gradually and imperceptibly as in many other climates, where a mild and genial spring-time intervenes between the seasons of extreme cold and heat, but suddenly, and, as it were, almost at a bound. But two or three short weeks ago the face of the country was still all white with the snows of many a long month, and the great St. Lawrence was bridged over from shore to shore with one broad expanse of solid ice of almost incredible thickness. Anon the vast mass broke up, with explosions loud as the roar of artillery, into countless rugged fields and hummocks, which, after floating up and down awhile on the bosom of the mighty tide, drifted away at last out seaward, to return no more. It is a trite trick of the mimic stage to make old Father Winter suddenly cast aside his hoary garments and stand forth at once in bright array bedecked with fruits and flowers; here in very deed, and on the grandest scale, Nature seems with one touch to sweep away the wintry snow, and with another to clothe the landscape with profuse and luxuriant vegetation. How strange to see the humming-bird dart like a streak of golden light among the fragrant shrubs; stranger still to see the butterfly, attracted by the lines of some stray wild flower, flutter away again, repelled by the chilling neighbourhood of the last remnant of a snow-drift lying in a sheltered corner, where no sunbeam ever finds its way.

It is a pleasant evening, and on a little wooded knoll, on the summit of a cliff that overhangs the St. Lawrence two or three miles above Quebec, there is a little group of persons, all of whom we have seen before. One of them is Boulanger, and in the man now seated beside him, notwithstanding his mean attire and his careworn look, the honest woodman had been at no loss to recognise his visitor of the previous autumn, Isidore de Beaujardin. The latter had been welcomed with a warmth and sincerity that touched him deeply, and although he had not originally thought of saying anything about his troubles to persons in so humble a condition, some mistaken suppositions on their part as to the cause of his reappearing amongst them in so unexpected a plight had led him to tell them that he had been obliged to fly from France. Even his own family had taken part against him he said, adding that he had not a friend in the world to whom he could turn for help or comfort. As he spoke this in the bitterness of his heart, poor Bibi, who stood by, was melted to tears, and the sturdy woodsman looked half disposed to follow her example; whilst Amoahmeh, who sat a little way apart, yet near enough to catch every word that fell from their visitor's lips, turned away, and bent her head over the work on which she was engaged.

"But, monsieur," said Boulanger at length, "there is surely your uncle, the Baron de Valricour, whom I remember well, and who is the most kind and generous of gentlemen one could possibly desire to have for one's friend—surely he can help you."

"It was indeed for that very reason that in my despair I resolved to come out here and secure his assistance, not for my wretched self, but for one who—who——" He paused awhile as his emotion overcame him; then he continued: "My evil fate still pursues me. I learned this afternoon at Quebec that M. de Valricour has just gone back to France on leave and will not return for some months. But why should I trouble your kind hearts with my sorrows? You would never have heard of them, indeed, but that I could not find myself within a couple of miles of you without sparing an hour or so to learn how it fared with my old comrade of the woods. And to think of finding Amoahmeh here too! I should scarce have known you again, my good girl," said he, reaching out his hand to her. "'Tis not a year since I left you a girl, and I find you quite a woman." The words were natural enough, for the contrast in Isidore's case between the once brilliant and handsome aide-de-camp of General Montcalm and the miserable-looking peasant of to-day was scarcely greater than that between the half-starved idiotic Indian girl of a year ago and the comely maiden, dressed in the neat costume of a Canadian country girl, who, rising from her seat, now stepped towards him, and taking the extended hand in both of hers, pressed it silently to her lips.

"Yes," said Boulanger smiling, "and I must tell you, monsieur, that it is not outwardly only that Amoahmeh has changed for the better. She has become a good Christian like the rest of us, and she proves it too, by helping in one way or another all whom she happens to come across, no matter at what cost to herself. As for outside appearance, I suppose monsieur knows as well as we do how that has been managed."

"I!" replied Isidore with some surprise. "How should I know?"

"Oh, I supposed you knew of course that monseigneur the Marquis your father sent her a letter some months ago, which we got through the subintendant at Quebec, enclosing a hundred louis for her, and thanking her from himself and Madame the Marquise for the way in which she saved your life at Fort William Henry. Ah, it was a beautiful letter indeed, so kind and condescending. We had not a dry eye among us when we had read it. We all agreed that monseigneur must be one of the best men in all the world, so generous and tender-hearted too."

The woodman stopped, for he could not but notice the pained expression that came over Isidore's face, and betrayed the conflict of emotions going on within him.

"Yes, I too thought so once, but that is over," said Isidore. "Would that he could have shown himself as tender-hearted and generous to poor Marguerite, if not to his own flesh and blood," he added bitterly, half-speaking to himself.

Boulanger hastened to change a subject evidently so painful to his visitor.

"And what may monsieur intend to do now, if it is not an impertinent question?" said he. "Surely you could rejoin the army here. Montcalm, I fancy, would be glad enough to help one who has already served under him so bravely."

"No, honest friend, there is no hope for me in that quarter. Montcalm could not help me even if he would. It would answer no good purpose were I to tell you why, and it is better for you that you should not know. I am no longer Colonel de Beaujardin, but a nameless wanderer. If you speak of me it must only be as Claude the poor French peasant; but it were best not to do so at all, or you may get yourself, and me too, into trouble. Yet something I must do, and I have resolved to go off to Cape Breton, where, as I have learned at Quebec, the English are about making an attack on Louisburg."

"On Louisburg!" exclaimed the Canadian. "Why, I should have thought they had enough of that last year."

"At all events," replied Isidore, "they will find the task no easy one with such a fellow as our brave Drucour in command of the place; but he will need all his skill and bravery too, for I heard before I left France of the great preparations the English have been making to ensure success this time. Some months ago their Admiral Boscawen sailed from England, and is now in command of a score of line of battle ships, and nearly as many frigates; they say at Quebec that his fleet has left Halifax, with more than a hundred smaller vessels, carrying a force of twelve thousand men to attack Louisburg. The English have fetched home a general named Amherst from Germany, where they have been helping our enemy, King Frederick of Prussia, and have given him the command, and there is also a Colonel Wolfe amongst their officers, who, they say, has already done good service. If they are as slow about making the attack as they have been in coming from England, they'll not take Louisburg this year. They have got a Minister now, however, who hates us thoroughly, and will give us trouble enough. I daresay you have heard of this Mister Pitt I speak of."

"O yes, I have heard of him sure enough, monsieur, but it don't matter much about him. I suppose they have not got any generals like ours, and when it comes to fighting, let them come, say I."

"You seem quite to forget, my friend, that these English once had a general called Marlborough," said Isidore.

"O yes, they once had," retorted Boulanger; "but as the famous old song says—

'Monsieur Malbrouk est mort, Est mort et enterre.'

Malbrouk is dead and buried at all events, and will not frighten us any more. But, seriously, monsieur, I suppose from what you say that you are thinking of going to help our brave fellows at Louisburg?"

"Just so," answered Isidore. "It matters little where I go just now—it is better to die like a soldier than live on thus; so I will now say adieu, and go back to Quebec, whence I must make my way down to Louisburg as I best may."

"At least, however," exclaimed the Canadian, "you must let us see first what we can do to fit your honour out a little better. Come, Bibi, let us have supper, and I will try what I can rummage out that may be of use to monsieur. If I can do nothing else, I can at all events furnish him with a rifle and powder-horn."

Then without waiting for the thanks which his guest was about to offer, the sturdy woodsman hurried away with his wife to carry his good intentions into effect.

Amoahmeh, who had remained at a little distance during this colloquy, now approached Isidore, as if about to speak to him, and as she seemed to hesitate, he gave her a smile of encouragement.

"And the dear young lady who was so kind to me?" said she, inquiringly. "Where is she, monsieur—is she well?"

The smile was gone at once. Isidore's countenance fell, and he buried his face in his hands and groaned in the bitterness of his heart. Amoahmeh shrank lack, and clasping her hands together exclaimed, "Alas! what have I said? I did not—I could not know."

There was a painful silence for a minute or two, then laying her hand timidly on Isidore's arm she said, "Oh, forgive me if I have distressed you—you to whom I owe so much—you who first told the poor lonely Indian girl where it is that we may surely hope to see again those whom we loved, and whom God has taken from us. Ah, it is hard to hear; but monsieur knows that if there is one angel less on earth, there is one more in heaven."

"Girl, girl!" exclaimed Isidore, raising his head, "you do not know what you are saying, or how you torture me. She is not dead—at least, for aught I know—but she is dead to me—lost for ever!"

Then as he marked the distressed and bewildered look with which she listened to him, a look so like the old vacant stare that he remembered too well, a strange fear came over him.

"My good girl," he continued in a soothing tone, "I grieve that I have frightened you, but my sorrow overcame me for the moment. Be comforted—she is yet alive, and, with Heaven's blessing, I dare still hope that some day I may find her again, and that we may yet be happy."

Touched by the deep sigh of relief with which Amoahmeh received these words, and by the tears that followed it, Isidore could not choose but tell her something of what had befallen Marguerite. Debarred as he had latterly been from consolation or sympathy, and without a friend to speak a single word of comfort or encouragement to him, it is scarcely to be wondered at that he should open his heart to any one who would pour balm upon his wounded spirit. But sorrow had already borne some fruit with him, and as he briefly told the story of the misfortunes that had befallen him, no word that savoured of anger or of vengeful feeling passed his lips, and though he could not but speak of grievous wrongs done both to her and to him, he forbore to use hard words against, or even to name, those who had brought this misery upon them.

"See," said he at last, with a melancholy smile, "I have been led, I scarce know how, to tell you a long story about myself; let us now talk of other things."

"But, monsieur," replied Amoahmeh, who had listened to every word with intense interest, "you have scarcely once spoken of monsieur your father. How could he suffer this? He is a great noble in France, surely he could have saved you? Do I not know him to be so good even to a poor stranger, that it is not possible he would let his own son, and a noble one as you are, to become the victim of such a dreadful thing as this lettre de cachet which you tell me of? Did you not see him at the last and tell him what had happened to her? Surely his heart must have melted if he had known all you tell me now."

Isidore remained silent for a little while. "To speak the truth," said he at length, "it is just this that oftentimes adds to my sorrow. I do feel that I ought at the very last to have made one more appeal to him; but, after all, what could it have availed me? He must have known it all, else why come there to hunt us down? Heaven forgive me if I have wronged him. At all events it is too late now. Let us say no more about it. Here is our good Boulanger come to call us in. God be thanked that I have found at least this ray of comfort in my trouble."

Seldom if ever had that humble dwelling seen so abundant a meal as that which Bibi had managed to improvise for their young guest, and when it was over the honest Canadian produced the promised rifle and accoutrements, and his wife and Amoahmeh did their best to add to them such trifles as might be useful in a campaign. Then, after many a hearty grasp of the hand and many a warm expression of his hope that they might meet again in happier times, Isidore bade his kind friends adieu, and set out on his return to Quebec.



CHAPTER II.

Two months passed away, and beneath the bright August sun the still waters of the St. Lawrence were reflecting the clear and well-defined image of its lofty and thickly wooded banks, when Isidore again stood on that well-remembered knoll, conversing eagerly with his humble Canadian friend. The contrast between the two men was even more striking than on the last occasion of their meeting there. Boulanger seemed if possible more hale and hearty than ever, and there was in his whole manner and deportment a vivacity and joyousness even greater than that which commonly characterised him. Still he seemed to check himself as much as it was in his nature to do, and paused more than once in his warmly expressed greetings as he surveyed the pitiable condition of his visitor, which was indeed more deplorable and wretched than when the hospitable woodsman and his wife had done their best to fit him out for his expedition to Louisburg.

"Alas!" said the Canadian, "we have already heard that it was all of no use and that the place has fallen, but as yet few particulars have reached us here, as you may suppose. Indeed I too have been away from here almost all the time, and have only just come back. But we must do what we can to recruit you a little, and then perhaps monsieur will tell us all about it." So once more Isidore found himself seated within the walls of the forester's dwelling, and as the meal went on did his best to satisfy his host's inquiries as to what had befallen him since their last meeting.

"I came too late to witness the beginning of the siege," said he, "for the fleet arrived there on the 2nd of June. They thought to take the place by surprise, but our brave General Drucour was not the man to let them do that, and he had already taken every precaution that skill and daring could devise to strengthen the defences in every direction."

"It was a pretty strong place even without that," said Boulanger. "I was down at Louisburg myself last year and know it well, with its great harbour that would hold all the British navy together, and the two great tongues of land sheltering it from the south-western and north-western gales, and Goat Island in the middle with its long reef of rocks."

"Just so," continued Isidore. "Well, there had been such a fog for the first week, and the sea broke on the beach so heavily, that even those bold English, with that fellow Wolfe to lead them, could not effect a landing until the 8th, and then they met with a pretty warm reception. It was of no use, however; our fellows were gradually driven back, and the siege began in good earnest. Every yard of ground was contested, but by degrees our outlying batteries were first silenced, then taken, and it was whilst this was going on that I reached the place. Besides our regular troops there were three or four hundred Canadians and some Indians; and being a soldier with some experience, I got the command of a company of irregulars. So matters went on, until at length the Goat Island batteries were silenced; but on the 9th of last month——"

"The 9th!" cried Boulanger. "Ah, I recollect that day well enough. I'll tell you about that presently; go on, I pray you."

"Well, on that night we made a tremendous sortie, and took the enemy by surprise. They were commanded by a British Lord—Dundonald was his name—but if the poor fellow was taken unawares he paid dearly for it, for he was killed, together with a great number of his men. Yet they were soon reinforced, and came on so gallantly that we were repulsed, losing many men and some prisoners. I, too, was hit, but luckily it was only a graze."

"What! You were in the sortie then?" exclaimed Boulanger, not a little excited by the narrative.

"Yes, and our brave general was pleased to say I had done good service in bringing off some of our men who were nearly surrounded. He offered at once to give me a company of regulars, and asked my name. But I told him plainly that I was under a cloud and could not accept his offer; still he insisted on giving me a few words in writing, which he said might some day be of use to me.

"The rest of my sad story is soon told," Isidore went on to say. "Three of our great ships had already been set on fire in the harbour, and the enemy kept up such a cannonade upon them that it was impossible to save them; but the town being, as you know, three or four miles from the spot where the landing was made, the siege was not yet at an end. Ten or twelve days after the sortie, however, Wolfe had pushed on his attack almost up to the walls. Then the citadel was burnt, and on the day after that the barracks, and at last three great breaches were made in the defences of the place itself. The day following two more of our line of battle ships were captured and burnt by some of their captains, who made a sudden attack on them in the very harbour itself. All hope of further resistance was now at an end, and on the 26th the unfortunate Drucour was obliged to surrender."

"Yes, we have heard that," said Boulanger; "but General Montcalm has already done something to make up for that, though Louisburg has been such a triumph for those terrible English."

"It must indeed be something of importance to make up for what we have lost there," replied Isidore. "My old habits on the staff led to my knowing better than most people the extent of our misfortune. The English took and destroyed eleven of our great ships, and made nearly six thousand of our men prisoners, to say nothing of capturing 250 guns and fifteen thousand stand of arms, and, what is worst of all, they can boast of taking nearly a dozen of our colours."

"But how did you escape?" inquired the forester anxiously.

"Well, that is of little consequence," answered Isidore, "though that was strange enough after all. I told you that we had some Indians fighting on our side, and very well they fought too, though I do not care to have to do with those rascals. Fortunately there were none on the English side—I say fortunately, for I have always found there is more anxiety connected with watching against a handful of them than against any number of regulars; one never knows what cunning wiles and surprises they may be devising. Strange to say, the chief of our Indians, a fellow named White Eagle, seemed to have taken a mighty liking to me, and stuck close to me wherever I went. I fancy most of his tribe managed to escape at the last; but after the capitulation, when I found myself with a number of our Canadian volunteers lodged in a shattered block-house awaiting the decision of our captors, whom should I find seated quietly by my side but my friend the red skin."

"Eh?" exclaimed Boulanger with marked surprise. "What tribe did he belong to?"

"Oh, he was an Algonquin," replied Isidore. "I asked him how he came there when most of his people had got safe away? He only grunted the usual 'ugh'; but when most of the prisoners had fallen asleep, tired out with their long and weary work, he said to me quietly, 'When the sun sets, the pale face can escape and go back to Quebec.' Not a word more could I get out of him till night had come on. Then he touched my arm and pointed to the window frame, close to which we lay. The window itself had been blown out, indeed the place was riddled with shot holes, and the roof had been half blown off, so that what little light the moon did give shone right down upon us. Wondering what was to come next I watched him attentively, and saw him stealthily tie the end of a long wampum belt to the stump of one of the iron window stanchions. 'Slip down and drop; it is but a couple of lengths more to the ground,' said he. Without a word I crept to the window, and in another minute had slid down. The drop, however, was longer than I had counted on, and I fell rather heavily. 'Who goes there?' shouted a sentry on the wall, a little way off. Of course I lay as still as death, and fortunately the shadow of a buttress fell exactly across the spot where I had fallen. The sentry challenged again and fired, but as he did so the Indian dropped lightly down at my side, seized me by the arm and hurried me away. I suppose there was an alarm, but if they did miss me from amongst the prisoners, they probably did not think it worth while to give chase. Accustomed as we were to the ins and outs of the place, my friend and I managed easily to evade the sentries, and in a quarter of an hour more we were clear of them, and in the open country beyond the town. We did not slacken our pace, however, and in a couple of hours we reached an Indian encampment, where I recognised many of the red skins I had seen during the siege. At daybreak we moved off, and I returned with the tribe to the neighbourhood of Quebec. At parting the chief presented me with a new wampum belt, which he drew from beneath his vest, saying, 'Keep this in token that White Eagle has discharged his trust.'"

"What!" cried Boulanger, in great excitement. "Is that the belt which you now have on?"

"Yes," said Isidore, untying and showing it to him; "and I shall certainly keep it in recollection of my most extraordinary escape."

The forester gave one look at it, and uttered the word, "Amoahmeh!"

"Who—what?" said Isidore. "By the by, I have been going to ask you more than once what has become of that poor Indian girl."

"Nay, you ought to know better than I, to judge from this wampum belt," replied Boulanger.

"Why so? What has become of her?"

"Well," answered the Canadian, "if you had asked me a few minutes ago I should have spoken out pretty strongly about her, but I suspect she is not so bad after all."

"Bad! What do you mean?"

"Why, you see, monsieur," replied Boulanger, "you had scarcely left us a couple of days when she bolted without a word, not even saying as much as 'thank ye,' or 'good-bye.' I did feel vexed, I confess, for I was quite sure she had joined a tribe of Indians that had been loafing about here for some time. I had more than once noticed her at work over a wampum belt, as if she had a hankering after her old life. 'What's bred in the bone is sure to come out in the flesh,' I said to Bibi, and 'you can't make a silk purse out of a pig's ear.' However, as she seems to have had some hand in your escape, I'll not say a word against her. But what does monsieur intend to do now?"

Isidore did not answer him, and Boulanger was making some remarks as to the need in which his guest stood of a long rest after so much fatigue and anxiety, when Bibi suddenly held up her hand, saying softly, "Hush, I declare he has dropped off."

There was no mistake about that—the seat which the young soldier occupied, and which very possibly did duty as a bed by night, made by day a particularly comfortable couch, covered as it was with a fine soft buffalo-robe of huge dimensions. More than once towards the conclusion of his story Isidore had nodded, but had roused himself with a spasmodic start. At last, utterly overcome by prolonged fatigue, he had sunk down gradually and fallen fast asleep.

"Poor gentleman," said Boulanger, in a whisper, "I don't wonder at it, and I would not wake him for the world after all he has had to go through."

So the little curtain was drawn as noiselessly as possible to keep out the rays of the now setting sun, and creeping away stealthily on tiptoe, the kind-hearted and hospitable couple left their visitor to his dreams.

The sun had not only set, but had risen again when Isidore was aroused from his sleep by the noisy gambols of Boulanger's little ones beneath the window. Refreshed by his long rest, he was soon fortifying himself still further by a hearty breakfast, at which the conversation of the previous day was at once resumed.

"I am quite ashamed of having talked of nothing but myself yesterday," said Isidore, "instead of listening to others. You were saying something about our having had successes to set against the fall of Louisburg, and I did hear a report that Montcalm had repulsed the English on Lake George, but of course I have heard no particulars. What does it all amount to?"

"I fancy I can tell you about as much as any one," answered Boulanger; "I happened to be there."

"You!" exclaimed Isidore, with some surprise.

"Yes. You must know that very shortly after you left us, and whilst I was fretting about Miss Amoahmeh's unceremonious departure, I found our folks at Quebec preparing to send up reinforcements to General Montcalm at Ticonderoga, where a great attack was expected."

"I thought so," said his guest; "indeed I heard even before leaving France that Pitt's plans comprised not only the attack on Louisburg, but simultaneous operations on the lakes, and also in the west, on the Ohio."

"Well, it is all up with them on Lake George, at all events," continued the forester. "I found they wanted guides at Quebec for the detachments going up country, and being unsettled and just in the humour for it, I offered my services, and so it came about that I reached Ticonderoga at the beginning of last month. It was on the 4th, just as Montcalm's scouts reported the embarkation of the English at the southern end of Lake George, on the way to attack us. You know that country, monsieur?"

"Of course; I was at Fort William Henry, you know. Ticonderoga, I recollect, lies just at the southern extremity of Lake Champlain, just where the northern end of the comparatively small Lake George almost joins it. What was the English force?"

"Ah, you gentlemen on the staff are always asking what's the enemy's strength. Well, I heard one of our officers say that General Abercromby had with him nine or ten thousand New England militia, and about six thousand English regulars. They had more than a thousand boats and barges, and I'm told that there never was a grander sight than to see them all coming up the lake on the 5th of July, with music playing and streamers flying, just for all the world like a holiday procession."

"They could not add to the beauty of that lovely lake," said Isidore, interrupting him. "Well do I remember it with its myriads of enchanting little islands mirrored in its clear smooth waters, and glowing all bright and lovely in the setting sun."

"A good many of those poor fellows only saw the sun set once or twice more," continued the Canadian. "They landed on the following day a few miles from Fort Ticonderoga, and marched forward at once, our small force of men stationed there retiring before them, and by some blunder losing their way in the thick woods lying between that spot and the fort. As it happened, they fell in that afternoon with a body of the English under a milord Howe—as brave an officer as ever fought they say—who was killed by one of the first shots fired; but his men got the better of ours, and we lost a few killed and some prisoners. Their general, however, seems not to have been good for much, and fell back; but on the day after that he sent part of his army forward under another brave fellow, Colonel Bradstreet."

"I know," said Isidore; "the same who gallantly forced a passage up the Onondaga quite at the outset of the war. Well, go on."

"On the 8th they reached a place named Carillon, close to Ticonderoga, and began their attack on the fort. Some of the provincial militia came on first, but soon gave way, for our general, as you can guess, monsieur, had not only strengthened the fort with a formidable rampart some eight feet high, but had studded the approach to it with an abatis of prodigious trunks and branches of trees, which not only seemed, but actually proved impenetrable. On came the regulars as briskly and bravely as our men could have done, but it was only to be shot down in scores and hundreds by our sharpshooters sheltered behind the earthworks, who picked them off as they crossed the open and tried in vain to struggle through the abatis. Three times the attack was renewed by fresh troops, and the English fought splendidly; but even the Highlanders, though they climbed like wild cats, could only here and there get a few men through the tangled defences outside of us. At last their General Abercromby seemed to despair of success, and instead of trying some other point to the right or left, where I believe we were not half so well protected, he ordered a retreat. From that moment it was all up with them; their general's loss of heart seemed to affect even the brave fellows he commanded. When on the following day—the very 9th of July, monsieur, on which you were making your sortie at Louisburg—he gave the order to fall back towards the place where they had landed, a panic seized them. They fancied, I suppose, that all was lost, and there was a regular stampede for the lake, into which they might perhaps have rushed like a herd of bisons over a precipice, if that same Colonel Bradstreet had not made a stand against them and restored something like order. However, there they embarked as fast as they could, and went back to Fort William Henry, leaving nearly two thousand killed and wounded behind them, which was pretty well, considering that the troops our general had did not number more than about three thousand altogether."

"A great and glorious day for us indeed," exclaimed Isidore; "and from what you say of the nature of the conflict, I should hope it did not cost us very dear."

"Less than four hundred men in all," replied the Canadian; "so if we have lost Louisburg we beat them at Ticonderoga. And if they are proud of their General Wolfe, let them send him to fight Montcalm and we shall see who is the best man."

It may easily be imagined that Isidore had listened to this narrative with the deepest interest, and indeed at times with no little excitement. No sooner was it concluded than he started up, exclaiming, "I cannot stay here brooding over my misfortunes whilst such things are going on around me—it would kill me. No, I will not sit idle with my hands folded whilst others are shedding their blood for France. I have made up my mind to go to the army on the lakes. I should hardly be recognised now," he added, somewhat bitterly, "and if I were, what matters it? One can but die once, and I have little to live for save one thing, that seems every hour to become more utterly hopeless."

"Monsieur is right," cried Boulanger. "I also feel that there are times when every good Frenchman should be up and doing. We will start to-morrow."

"We!" rejoined Isidore, surprised. "You surely do not mean to leave your home again so soon?"

"As for that," replied the forester, "I had thought of it already. It is my chief business to be moving about for one thing or another, and the more I stick to that the sooner I shall be able to call this little place my own for good and all. So there's an end of it."

Isidore could not but think that the honest Canadian's attachment to him had something to do with this determination, and he would fain have persuaded him to reconsider his resolve, but it was to no purpose. The rest of the day was accordingly spent in making preparations for their departure, and on the following morning they set out on their journey.



CHAPTER III.

The capture of Louisburg was at once followed up by a descent upon the French settlements on the Acadian coast by Sir Charles Hardy, with half a dozen ships of the line and some frigates, carrying with them a small land force under the command of Wolfe. This was intended partly as a measure of retaliation and partly to draw away a portion of the enemy's forces from the theatre of war on the lakes. Miramichi and the villages along the Bay of Chaleurs and at Point Gaspe were partially or wholly destroyed, and although no needless cruelty may have been added to the inevitable horrors involved in such an expedition, the sufferings of the peaceful inhabitants of the devoted districts cannot but excite the deepest commiseration. Their dwellings were burnt, and the stores of provisions laid up for the winter totally destroyed, whilst the people themselves were either killed, taken prisoners, or driven out into the woods, where many perished with cold and hunger. Some of course managed to escape, and a few betook themselves to other places on the St. Lawrence, or, like Isidore de Beaujardin, ultimately joined the army under Montcalm.

It was in company with some of these fugitives, who had been organised at Quebec, that Isidore and Boulanger at last reached Crown Point, on Lake Champlain, where they found that no operations of any importance had been undertaken since the great repulse of the English at Ticonderoga. Skirmishes indeed occasionally took place along the border, and one expedition under Major Rogers, on the shore of Lake Champlain, kept the French on the alert. Whilst Montcalm was unable for want of a sufficiently numerous army to undertake any great offensive movement, Abercromby, disheartened by his late fruitless attempt on Ticonderoga, lay almost inactive in the neighbourhood of Lake George.

Such a state of things was distasteful enough to Isidore, who had hoped in the excitement of a busy campaign to be able to forget his sorrows, and who fretted continually over the mean and miserable position he was now condemned to occupy. He had begun to think seriously of returning to Quebec in the hope of meeting with his uncle the Baron de Valricour, when an event occurred which put an end, at all events for a time, to any such thoughts. As he was sitting one evening, disconsolately enough, on the parapet of a small outwork, he heard footsteps approaching him, and on looking up he recognised at once the small and well-remembered figure of the Marquis de Montcalm. Almost mechanically he rose and saluted. Montcalm, apparently struck by his appearance, stopped and eyed him curiously; his singularly retentive memory never failed him at such a moment.

"Truly," said he at last, "I could hardly have believed it possible. Who would have thought of seeing you here, Colonel de Beaujardin—and in such a disguise too!" he added, with a searching and somewhat suspicious glance at Isidore's costume, which had little of the soldier about it.

"I do not call myself Colonel de Beaujardin now," replied Isidore, bitterly, "but Claude Breton, general, at your service."

"Breton—Breton!" exclaimed the marquis, considering for a moment. "It was reported to me, I recollect, that a Canadian called Breton showed great courage and coolness in a little affair of outposts a few days since. Was it you?"

Isidore bowed slightly, but made no other answer.

Montcalm was silent for a minute or so, and fidgeted with his sword-knot, though he kept his eyes intently fixed on his quondam aide-de-camp.

"Monsieur de Beaujardin," said he at length, with his usual rapidity of utterance, "I believe you know as well as any one that I have always held that men seldom lose caste and come down in the world without some fault of their own. I should be sorry indeed to think this is the case with you, but you beyond all other men had at your command everything that could ensure an honourable and even brilliant career. What can have brought you to this?"

"No fault of mine, sir," replied Isidore, proudly. "I have been the victim of circumstances which it was beyond my power to control."

"Beyond your power! What! with a father in the position of the marquis to assist you?" rejoined Montcalm. "There is no man whom I would more willingly believe, or more willingly assist, but——"

"General Montcalm will have the goodness to remember that I have neither sought nor solicited his assistance," answered Isidore, haughtily.

"I do not forget it, sir," was the reply, "indeed it is that which justifies my doubts. I, at all events, am not changed, and if Monsieur de Beaujardin has nothing to reproach himself with, he may without scruple claim both sympathy and assistance from me."

Isidore was touched with the generous forbearance evinced by such a gentle answer to his rather defiant speech.

"Sir," said he, "His Majesty has done me the honour to issue a lettre de cachet against me, and not for all the world would I place such a friend as you have been in a false position, by asking at your hands what, as the king's lieutenant here, you have scarcely a right to accord to me."

"I accept the reason, and I honour you for it, de Beaujardin," said Montcalm, grasping his hand. "I grieve to find you in such a position, but I am happily not called upon to act on your information, of which, indeed," he added with a smile, "I will choose to doubt the accuracy. It is not for me to pry into your family affairs, but if you desire to confide in me, I will assuredly counsel and help you to the best of my power."

Isidore could not repel an offer of friendship so kindly and generously made, and as briefly as possible he narrated the circumstances that had led to his revisiting Canada. Montcalm listened to him attentively and without interruption.

"You are certainly more sinned against than sinning," said he, when Isidore had concluded, "and if you have in some respects acted hastily, it has been from noble and generous impulses. I take a real interest in the unfortunate young lady, whose father I well remember as a brave and devoted soldier. To restore you to your former position, or even to appoint you to a company, is plainly impossible at present, but I can give you active employment of a kind which will keep you out of the way of being recognised, and should an opportunity offer, I will not forget you."

Isidore was about to express a warm acknowledgment of this kindly assurance, but Montcalm interrupted him: "Wait until I have really done something for you," said he. "And now listen to me. The campaign here is virtually over. With the force at my command, I can do no more than hold Abercromby in check, and prevent him from detaching any considerable force beyond that sent away by him some time since under Bradstreet for the reduction of Fort Frontenac, which has been only too successfully accomplished. I have just heard that the place is taken and the shipping on Lake Ontario captured or destroyed. What could de Noyan do with a hundred and twenty men? The defence of the fort was hopeless in the absence of reinforcements, the absolute necessity for which de Longueuil seems to have neglected to report, unless indeed the Marquis de Vaudreuil purposely withheld them. I suspect as much, and if so, poor de Noyan will be sacrificed, for the king is not likely to hear the true state of the case."

"A disaster indeed," observed Isidore, who in the interest he felt in Montcalm's communication seemed to fancy himself once more the aide-de-camp and personal friend of his old chief. "We have lost, then, the command of the lake, and what is perhaps worse, our hold on the many tribes of Indians who used to make Frontenac their great place of assembly for concluding their contracts and alliances."

"You are right," was the reply. "Beaujardin, or Breton, I see you have not lost your head in spite of your misfortunes. Well, all that is past helping now, and what is almost as bad, we shall lose our hold in the West. General Forbes has long since left Philadelphia with some one thousand five hundred British regulars, chiefly Highlanders, and at least five thousand of those New England militia, for an attack on Fort Duquesne. Forbes is not the man to let himself be decoyed into such a snare as Braddock fell into, but he has to cross the Alleghanies and a tract of a hundred leagues or more through a strange and difficulty country, and that is not done in a week, or a month either. This brings me to what I have to say to you. I wish de Lignieres, who is in command at Duquesne to know that I consider the place cannot resist such a force as will be brought against it; he cannot be reinforced, and he will do wisely to dismantle and abandon it, falling back on such points as circumstances may leave him to think best capable of defence. Will you take this message? and if so, how soon can you set out?"

"I am ready, and will start in ten minutes," was the prompt reply.

Montcalm smiled. "You are indeed worthy of a better fate than that which has unhappily befallen you. As for a guide——"

"I have with me the Canadian woodsman Boulanger, who took me from Oswego to Quebec two years ago."

"Boulanger! I recollect the man well; a better guide or a more trusty fellow you could not have." Saying this, Montcalm wrote a few lines in pencil on a leaf of his pocket-book and handed it to Isidore. "Now, adieu," said he; "when we meet again I trust I may be able to welcome you, not as Claude Breton, but as my old friend and aide-de-camp Colonel de Beaujardin."

"Farewell, sir," answered Isidore; "it will indeed be a proud and happy day for me should I ever again find myself on the staff of a general whom our country will surely one day hail as the saviour of New France."

"No," rejoined Montcalm gravely, "that is no longer possible. It is now only too evident that, backed by a brave and energetic people, with almost unlimited resources, and assisted by their colonies in America, Pitt will not rest till our beautiful New France has become a British colony. But the great changes that lie before us will not end there. Mark me, de Beaujardin, those mad New Englanders with their foolish notions of independence will not long brook being ruled by a government three thousand miles off. The time will come, perhaps, when instead of fighting against France they may welcome her as an ally who will help them to shake off the allegiance they owe to their king, and France, unhappy France, will some day follow their example! I shall not live to see it, but you may. Once more, adieu!"

Boulanger, who was soon found, evinced no small delight at the news which Isidore at once imparted to him, and within the ten minutes which Isidore had named they were already on the way towards Fort Duquesne. The journey was a long one, a matter of some hundred and fifty leagues indeed; but it was diversified by many a little episode incidental to life in the woods and wilds, and Isidore scarcely knew whether he was most glad or sorry when it came to an end, and he had delivered to M. de Lignieres the message entrusted to him. They had come just in time.

General Forbes, warned by Braddock's disaster in 1755, had halted at Raystown, nearly a hundred miles from the fort, in order to advance upon it by a new route, and thus avoid the gorge which had been the scene of the former catastrophe. The Highlanders, however, pushed on, and desirous perhaps of achieving the capture of the place before the main body could come up, had posted themselves at a short distance from the fort and challenged a combat in the open ground. This challenge de Lignieres had accepted and had signally defeated them, unsupported as they were. But he knew that the magnitude of the force which was shortly to be brought against him would make resistance unavailing, and after dismantling the defences and destroying whatever could not be carried away, he evacuated the place, leaving the famous Fort Duquesne to fall into the hands of the British, and to be known henceforward by the name of Pittsburg.

It had been Isidore's intention after this event to make his way back to Quebec, and he and Boulanger set out again together for this purpose. Their route, however, lay in a different direction from that taken by de Lignieres and the retreating garrison. They had just lain down to rest on the first evening of their march, when the Canadian's sharp ears detected the approach of footsteps, and before he could arouse his companion, they were surrounded by a small detachment of New England men sent out to scour the woods. Resistance would have been mere folly, and they were at once captured. At first they were in hopes that they might pass unnoticed as common Canadian woodsmen, but, unfortunately for them, they were searched, and the testimonial from General Drucour, which Isidore had carried about with him ever since the taking of Louisburg, settled their fate. They were, without further question, carried off to head-quarters, to be dealt with possibly as spies, but at the best as prisoners of war.



CHAPTER IV.

The Marquis de Beaujardin had awaited the return of Jasmin from his errand to the Quai La Fosse, first with impatience, then with irritation, but at last with anxiety; and as neither the valet nor Jean Perigord made their appearance, either that night or on the following morning, he at last proceeded to the quay in person to search out the innkeeper. He found Jean still in great perturbation about the events of the preceding evening, and a visit from another totally different Marquis de Beaujardin so excited him that for a long time he refused to tell anything. At last, however, he was induced to do so, and the marquis learned that he had come too late, and that Marguerite had undoubtedly been seized, but that Isidore had certainly escaped for the present, though all inquiries as to whither he had gone proved wholly fruitless.

With a heavy heart Monsieur de Beaujardin returned to his chateau, quite powerless to take any further steps, for he felt that any attempt on Marguerite's behalf would be more likely to lead to Isidore's capture than to obtain her liberation.

Surprised at not seeing the valet again, Madame de Valricour tried to ascertain from the marquis what had passed at Nantes, but his only reply was a stern request that she would cease visiting Beaujardin altogether. As to his wife, the marquis confined himself to telling her that Isidore was safe, but had gone abroad. Of course the baroness soon heard this from her weak-minded sister-in-law, but she had learned from de Crillon that both the birds had been snared, and felt quite satisfied that the marquis had only sought to relieve his wife's anxiety by a made up story of her son's safety.

The return of the Baron de Valricour from New France on a short furlough did not mend matters. The baroness only told him that Isidore and Marguerite had eloped, at which he was very indignant: the marquis preserved a moody silence, feeling assured that the baroness had had some hand in what had occurred, but he had no proofs. What could he say? Besides, he hated such scenes as must needs ensue on a revelation of the little he did know. So there was for a time a great coolness between the two houses; but Madame de Valricour had now formed another scheme, and as incessant dropping will wear away even a stone, she soon contrived to induce the marchioness to insist on having Clotilde frequently at Beaujardin. The marquis had always been fond of his niece, and the fact that they both secretly grieved over the fate of Isidore and Marguerite drew him still closer to her. This was just what the baroness wanted. The match with Isidore was at an end, but the marquis might be induced to adopt Clotilde. She took her measures accordingly. Hints were now and then dropped about her returning to Canada with the baron, and taking Clotilde with them. The marquis did not disguise his reluctance to let Clotilde go. Now was the time to get him to insist on Clotilde's remaining at Beaujardin, perhaps to declare his intentions about the disposal of his property in her favour. Much to her surprise and vexation, however, she found, on the very first attempt to lead up to that subject, that both the marquis and his wife assumed without question that Isidore's absence was only temporary, and that he would certainly return some day to Beaujardin; she was therefore compelled, for a time at least, to let things take their course. The pretended journey to Canada with her husband was abandoned, and M. de Valricour returned thither alone. At parting, however, there was a reconciliation between him and the marquis, who, after narrating all that had come to his own knowledge respecting his son's marriage, and the events that had taken place at Nantes, expressed a hope that Isidore might have taken refuge in New France, and begged M. de Valricour to do what he could to ascertain whether such was really the fact. This the kind-hearted baron promised faithfully to do, and then departed for Quebec, where he arrived shortly before the winter set in.

A lively and picturesque scene enough is that presented by the little market-place of Sorel. December has come, and with it the usual heavy and incessant falls of snow. That of last night has added a good foot at least to the three or four that already covered the country all around. Yet there are the accustomed little groups of habitans, with their provisions and wares for sale, chattering and gesticulating as vivaciously as ever over the difficulty they had in getting there at all through the heavy snow-drifts, and apparently quite regardless of a temperature several degrees below zero. Look at that motley little circle there, some clad in yellow leather coats with gay coloured borders, others in buffalo wraps with leather leggings, but most of them with red or wampum sashes tied round their waists. One is crowing over the others because the "Grand Voyer," or Road Inspector, has already made a short cut from his village over fields and fences alike, marking out the new track with fir-branches stuck in the snow at intervals, so that by night or by day there is no fear of missing the impromptu highway. But it was hard work for all that. The rude sledge, which is little more than a couple of short wooden runners with boards nailed across them, and a short pole at each corner, plunges into the snow and then carries forward a mass of it until the obstruction becomes too great; the clumsy machine then mounts over it somehow, and again plunges down till the increasing traffic makes the road one series of hillocks and deep holes or cahots, which jolt and jerk the traveller enough to dislocate every joint in his body. They are, however, not quite so bad as that yet, and the hardy little Canadian pony looks ready for any amount of work as he stands there with three or four more in a row. The warmth in their shaggy heads has melted the snow and ice that stuck to them when they came in, and it has run down their faces, but no sooner has it done so than it straightway congeals again, and hangs down from their noses in icicles a foot in length. You may see some nearly as long as those which hang from the eaves and window sills of the house opposite that was on fire last night; they froze there as the water was dashed up against the building whilst it was still blazing within.

No wonder that yonder country woman is selling her milk by the lump out of a sack, or that her husband, who is a bit of a humourist, has stuck up on their legs his half dozen dead pigs to glare at the passers-by as though they were still alive. There are half a score of Red Indians too; their tribe has pitched its wigwams in the forest at a little distance from the town, and they have come in to loaf about and pick up anything they can, or in the hope of getting some good-natured Canadian to treat them to the deadly fire-water. There they stand looking stolidly at the house of Pierre Lebon the baker, which is in a pretty plight, to be sure. It is a corner house, and round that unlucky corner the snow has whirled and eddied all night long till it has formed a pyramid-shaped hill twenty feet high against the side of the building, utterly burying the doorway, and even covering one of the upper windows, which it at last forced in. All along the little street beyond, for a score of yards at least, there is a bare patch of pavement on which the giddy blasts have not allowed a single flake of snow to settle.

Besides these Indians, there is a girl of the same tribe on the market-place, come to dispose of her little store of bark work embroidered with porcupine-quills, and gaily ornamented moccasins. She too is picturesque enough with her dark handsome face, surmounted by a quaint cap of white feathers, and her large cloak of white fox skins, beneath which peep out her scarlet leggings, and a pair of moccasins, not smartly decorated like those she has for sale, but made of plain buff leather, better suited to the great flat snow-shoes by her side, with which she has made her way hither across the deep snow. She speaks but little, yet her keen and watchful glances show that she is by no means unobservant of what is going on around her. See! one of the market women has stopped just in front of her, but it is only to have a good look at the glossy wrapper, white as snow, which glistens quite dazzlingly in the bright sunlight.

"Ah, child," says the woman, good-humouredly, as the girl rises and stands upright before her, "no one is likely to take you for the 'Black Lady of Sorel.'"

Contrary to her wont, for she seldom speaks except when directly questioned, the Indian girl exclaimed, "The Black Lady of Sorel, madame! Who is she?"

"Nay, my good girl," replied the woman, not at all displeased at being addressed as madame, "I don't mean a real lady, but the ghost who is seen sometimes walking on the wall of the fort—at midnight, of course."

"I have indeed heard say that there are ghosts," said the girl, "but I never saw one, madame."

"Nor I, child," was the reply, "and I am sure I don't want to."

"But what makes her walk about in such a strange place?" asked the girl, with unusual animation.

"You silly child, how should I know? My husband says that the soldiers at the fort, though they don't like to talk about it, declare it is the ghost of some very wicked person whom the king caused to be shut up there, and who, though she has been dead ever so long, is still trying to get out. But I cannot stop gossiping here, so good-bye. Don't be frightened at the ghost, child; it won't hurt you, though you are only a red skin."

Early on the following morning there was drumming enough to deafen one as the guard turned out in honour of Colonel de Valricour, who was received by the officer he had come to replace in the command of the fort. They held a long conference together on various points connected with the duties of the garrison, and these had been all duly disposed of when the old commandant thus addressed his successor—

"I have now only one thing more to do, monsieur, and that is to transfer to your keeping two state prisoners now in the fort. They were sent here two or three months ago, as the secret register will show you, and they pass by the names of Godefroid and Gabrielle. Their real names, however, as given in the king's warrant, are Isidore de Beaujardin and Marguerite Lacroix."

The baron started from his seat, exclaiming, "You do not mean to say——" but he could get no further.

"So it is," was the reply. "You seem startled, colonel. Ah, I hope these are not people in whom you are interested. I know nothing of them, but I supposed they must be highly connected."

"I am interested in them indeed," said the baron, greatly agitated; "in fact they are nearly related to me. To think that I should find them here, and that they should actually be placed in my charge."

"I am really concerned about it," said the ex-commandant. "It is a singularly painful position, for of course," he added, looking rather dubiously at do Valricour, "the king's warrant is a thing that one cannot play with or disregard, however distressing it may be to one's feelings."

"Sir," exclaimed the baron, sternly, "I do not want any suggestions from you in such a matter. I know my duty, and the king's warrant would be obeyed by me to the letter if it involved the very life of my own child."

"No doubt, no doubt," was the answer. "I have only further to say that it is a part of the minister's injunctions, as you will find in perusing them, that these two persons are not to be allowed to hold any communication with each other, and are to be carefully secluded from observation. Gabrielle has, of herself, chosen to wear a long mourning veil which she never removes; but as to all that, Monsieur le Baron, it is for you to act according to your instructions. I will now prepare for my departure, and I do myself the honour of bidding you adieu."

"Is it possible?" muttered M. de Valricour, as he paced up and down the chamber when left to himself. "So the poor boy was seized, after all, and my brother-in-law must have been misled as to his being at large. And Marguerite too, whom I promised to protect. What! must I act as her gaoler? I could be thankful to any English bullet that would save me from this." He sat down for a little while and endeavoured to collect himself, but it was of no use, and more than one tear dropped on the floor as the old soldier bowed his head and prayed for strength to do his duty. "I never knew how much I loved the boy till now," said he; "but he was so frank, so brave, so generous. And the poor forlorn orphan! Well," he exclaimed as he rose from his chair, "I can at least comfort them separately. Each one at least may be consoled by knowing that the other is alive and well. Yes, I will go at once."

Proceeding straight to the apartment occupied by Godefroid, he tapped at the door. A soldier opened it and saluted: "The prisoner is very bad, sir," said he, "I fancy he must be half out of his mind, he talks such stuff, and if not well watched he is like enough to make away with himself."

Greatly shocked at this announcement the baron stepped forward hastily and entered the mean room, where the prisoner was lying on a pallet groaning most distressingly. Summoning up all his self-command the visitor approached the bed, but instantly started back exclaiming, "What is this?"

"Ah, sir," said the attendant, "he has been like this, off and on, ever since he was brought here. Sometimes he calls himself Jasmin, and says he has betrayed his master for money, like Judas; sometimes he raves about a letter which he says he wants to show, and then again he don't, just as he happens to be better or worse; sometimes he talks about a Madame de Valricour; but one does not mind what a man like that talks about."

"No, no, of course not," replied the baron hurriedly. "As you have always attended to him you can do so still. He sees no one else, I suppose?"

"Of course not," said the man; "I've been used to this kind of work before, sir—more's the pity—and I know my duty." Whereupon the new commandant, after a special injunction to the man to be watchful, returned to his own apartment.

"Yes, it is plain enough," said he, as he mused over what he had just witnessed. "They did seize the wrong man, and Isidore is no doubt at large; that is something to be thankful for at all events. I am very much afraid, however, that my lady the baroness has been more deeply concerned in this business than Beaujardin cared to tell me. Well, I can let Marguerite know that her husband is safe, and that I will make her hard fate as light as I can till something can be done."

With these words he rose, and passing along the corridor to the other end of the fort, presently reached the door of the apartment allotted to Gabrielle. He knocked gently at the door, but no answer was returned. He knocked again, and for the third time, then he impatiently pushed open the door.

The prisoner was standing at the opposite end of the room, and as she turned towards him he noticed the long black veil which was thrown over her head, and covered her face, descending almost to the ground.

"Marguerite!" said he, scarce able to hide his emotion, "Marguerite! Do you not remember me?"

She started; at first she had not recognised him, but the voice soon recalled to her recollection the kindness and sympathy he had shown to her when they first met at Quebec the year before. Still she made no answer.

"Why so silent?" said he, in some surprise. "You may lift your veil to me, for I am thankful to say that I am the new commandant of this place, and my heartfelt wish is to comfort you, and help you if I can."

There was a brief pause, then the veil was lifted, and revealed the face of Amoahmeh.

It was some little time before the baron could recover from the shock.

"What is all this?" he at last exclaimed. "Where is Marguerite—or Gabrielle—and who are you?"

"If Monsieur de Valricour has forgotten me, I have not forgotten one who was once so kind to me," replied Amoahmeh.

"What!" said he, as the words called up a recollection of the interest he had taken in Marguerite's protegee. "Why, you are the Indian girl who saved Isidore's life at Fort William Henry. How came you here?"

Amoahmeh did not at first reply: she was not sure how far her questioner was to be trusted with that secret.

"Do you know what you have done?" he continued, impatiently. "If, as I fancy you have helped her to escape, I ought to have you taken out and shot before you are an hour older."