"Amoahmeh is ready to die," was the calm rejoinder.

The baron strode up and down, scarce knowing whether to be most pleased or angry, yet sorely puzzled what to do.

"Stay," said he. "You were handed over to me as Gabrielle; it is no business of mine that my predecessor handed over to me the wrong person, and let the right Gabrielle escape. And yet, glad as I am for one thing," he added, looking compassionately on his prisoner, "it goes to my heart to think that you should be repaid for your devotion by such a fate as this, not to say worse still when I may not be here to look after you. I cannot let you go," said he, stopping abruptly in front of her; "no, I can't let you go. I don't care even to ask you where she is, or anything about her; you have been delivered over to me as Gabrielle, and my duty is to keep you safe. I might be shot—nay, I would rather be than betray my trust."

Amoahmeh knelt down and took his hand.

"Monsieur," said she, "if all the doors of this cruel place were open Amoahmeh would stay and die here rather than bring trouble on one who has been kind to her and them."

"You are a noble girl indeed," said de Valricour, as he raised her up. "Only one thing more—you need not fear my betraying you. How on earth did you discover that she was here?"

"I was at Quebec some weeks ago," answered Amoahmeh, "and overheard some of the market people talking about a ship which had arrived there from Nantes. The sailors had told them there were two mysterious passengers on board, who were said to be state prisoners. My heart leaped when I thought of what my poor young benefactor had related to me about the lady; and when I found that the vessel had gone further up the river, I traced it to Three Rivers, where I heard a similar report. With such a clue even a mere child of the pale faces could have followed the trail, and after some time, with Heaven's blessing, I was rewarded by finding out that the prisoners were brought here."

"Then they are both safe?" said the baron, eagerly.

"Yes, she is by this time far on the way to one who will befriend her."

"And he?"

"The great chief of the pale-faced warriors has sent him far away to the fort on the great river where the sun goes down."

"Do you mean to say he went to General Montcalm?" inquired the baron, eagerly. But Amoahmeh, fearful lest she might have said too much, hurriedly drew the veil over her face and only replied, "What should Gabrielle know of him?"

"Well, well," said de Valricour, "I will question you no more, though how you ever came in here and she got out is a mystery to me. But I have other matters to see to, so farewell for the present."

Two little scenes that had taken place within the walls of the fort on the preceding night accounted for the mystery. The clock had not long struck an hour after midnight, when one of the soldiers, who had just been relieved, entered the guard-room well-nigh covered with snow from head to foot, and looking as pale as death.

"You found it cold enough out there to-night, comrade," said one of the men, roused by his entrance; "if it goes on like this we must get half-hour reliefs again, or some of us will be found frozen to death on guard, like poor Jean Maret was last year."

"Cold!" ejaculated the sentry, "I don't care for cold, and I would as soon die of frost as see again what I've seen to-night."

"What! the black ghost?" inquired the other, but with bated breath.

"Black! I should think not, I've heard of that; but if ever there was a white ghost in the world I've seen one to-night, flying along over the snow where any human being would have floundered over head and ears, and at last it went over the edge of the fosse, where the fall would have broken any mortal's neck to a certainty. But lo! before I could look round, there it was again flitting right past me in a whirl of snow, and with a blast that swept me clean off my feet."

"Why didn't you send a bullet through it?" said his comrade.

"Through it! Yes, that's just it. Any bullet but a silver one made out of a crown piece cut crosswise would only go through that sort of thing. Who ever heard of killing a ghost? Well, I only came to this horrid place last week, but if things are to go on like this, I shall pitch away my firelock and desert some night."

"Then you had better do it before de Loison goes, Comrade. He is an easy-going fellow enough, and don't like the bother of catching runaways, and says it is only wasting good cartridges. To-morrow we are to have old Valricour here instead; he is another kind of customer, for though he is as harmless as a baby, and as tender-hearted as a woman off duty, just try your tricks on him, and he will shoot you as soon as look at you."

"I don't care," replied the other doggedly; "I may as well be shot as frightened to death."

Perhaps a leaden bullet might not have proved quite so harmless as the superstitious sentry had supposed. When the apparition first vanished into the fosse opposite the corner of the fort, Marguerite was asleep, and dreaming that she was once more at Quebec, and listening to Isidore, as he sang that wondrously beautiful air of Stradella's. Presently she awoke with a sigh, but only to hear the enchanting melody continued in a low, soft voice. Was she awake, or still asleep? Hastily raising herself, she beheld, with a feeling of mingled surprise and awe, a tall slim figure clad in white, on which the night lamp cast just light enough to make it stand out from the surrounding gloom. The song ceased, and a chill blast sweeping through the chamber made her shudder. Was it the chill of death?

"Hush, lady! Fear nothing," said the apparition in a low voice. "It is Amoahmeh. Make haste, rise at once; I have come to set you free."

Scarce knowing what she did, Marguerite obeyed the strange bidding.

"Quick, put this on, and draw the hood well round your face," said her visitor, throwing over her the great white mantle. "Monsieur is alive and safe, and you will meet again if you can but escape from here."

By this time Marguerite had somewhat recovered from her amazement, though she could as yet scarcely grasp all the reality of what was passing.

"Amoahmeh! Is it indeed you? Merciful Heaven! Is he then really safe?" she added, clasping her bands.

"Quick, quick!" replied Amoahmeh. "This way, through the casement—slip your feet into these, they are no strange things to one who has been so long among us," and with these words she pointed to the snow-shoes which lay just outside the window, already half-hidden by the snow.

Marguerite shrank back alarmed, but Amoahmeh continued—

"Fear nothing, madame; I came up by the drift, which runs right down into the ditch. Turn then to the right, and you will come upon another drift, which will take you out upon the slope. At the foot of it you will find an Indian, who will conduct you to my tribe, and they will conceal you till they can make their way to Boulanger's cottage, near Quebec. Hasten, I beseech you. There is no time to be lost. If the sentries challenge you, heed them not, but speed on for your life."

"And you!" cried Marguerite; "you cannot follow in your moccasins only, and in that dress you must be seen, and may be fired upon."

"Fear not for me, madame," was the prompt reply. "I am still an Indian girl, and can laugh at any attempt to keep me in such a place as this longer than I choose to stay. Quick, if you would hope over again to see the one you love most dearly."

Scarce daring to breathe, in spite of all her courage, Amoahmeh watched the receding form as, with the parting words, "May Heaven reward you!" Marguerite passed into the raging snow-storm, and was soon lost even to the keen eyes of her deliverer. Still, however, Amoahmeh remained there bending forward, as if to catch some distant sound. At last it came. High even above the roaring and howling of the storm was heard what less practised ears might have taken for the shrill scream of an eagle winging its flight in safety to its nest. Then as she recognised the signal, Amoahmeh closed the casement, drew the black veil around her, and calmly lay down to rest, nor did she wake until she was aroused by the beating of the drums that announced the arrival of the new commandant.



CHAPTER V.

Six weary and trying months indeed to most of the personages who figure in this narrative were those which came to an end with the close of May, 1759. Even the Baron de Valricour, who always made the best of everything, had grown heartily tired of the forced inaction incidental to the long Canadian winter, when he received a despatch from head-quarters relieving him of his command at Sorel and instructing him to take up a responsible post at Quebec. The despatch was accompanied by a private communication from Montcalm himself, one part of which ran as follows:—

"For these measures, my good old friend and comrade, as well as for any others which may suggest themselves to you, I confidently rely on your well-known zeal and experience. The crisis is indeed a grave one. We have as yet no certainty of any very material aid from France to enable us to carry on the next campaign, which I have reason to know that Pitt intends to prosecute with greater energy than ever. His plan is a grand one, comprising an attack against Niagara, an invasion on the whole line of Lakes George and Champlain, and a combined naval and military expedition against Quebec. The capture of Louisburg and Forts Frontenac and Duquesne last year have given the enemy the command both of the upper and lower lines of water communication, and a great hold over us on the north and west, whilst the support of a population of nearly four hundred thousand in the English American states gives them a formidable advantage in the south. Although some of the states are not a little dissatisfied at the cost entailed on them both in men and money, most of them are evidently ready to make any sacrifices required of them. New France, on the other hand, gives to us but a population of some sixty thousand to draw upon, and of those considered capable of bearing arms we can reckon on only a small proportion as available. This is a grave disadvantage indeed, where the necessity of carrying all regular troops across the Atlantic makes both sides so largely dependent on their colonial militia, whilst the great conference held by the English with the Indians last autumn has deprived us of the aid of many tribes formerly friendly to us. The situation, however, is not without some favourable features. It is easy enough to sit down and draw great plans, but quite another thing to carry them out within the few months which our summer here affords, and in a country where the distances are so great and the natural obstacles so many and so serious. Amherst is still far from ready, and I doubt his being before Ticonderoga much sooner than the end of July. Desertion, too, is already rife among his troops, and I foresee that it will become still more so. Bourlemaque will have some four thousand good effectives, so that, apart from the possibility of our repeating the success we gained last year, I think we shall not see Amherst on the St. Lawrence before winter sets in again. The fate of this campaign will be decided, not at Niagara or Ticonderoga, but at Quebec."

The baron had read so far with much interest, but calmly and quietly enough. As he went on reading, however, he became more excited, and at last started up with an exclamation of mingled pleasure and surprise. He was about to quit the apartment, when an orderly came in and informed him that a young person was without and desired urgently to speak with him: "Who is it?" said he. "I am particularly engaged just now." Whilst he was still speaking a female entered the room, and the orderly, after a moment's hesitation, retired and left them alone.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" inquired the commandant sharply. "I cannot attend to you now."

But instead of making any reply the intruder flung herself on her knees before him, sobbing convulsively and evidently in great agitation; then as she raised her head the baron stepped back, exclaiming, "Is it possible! Surely it is Marguerite?"

"Yes, it is I," said she, clasping her hands, and looking up to him with streaming eyes. "I cannot bear it longer. Since I left this place I have had no peace. How could I, knowing as I did that I had left one who had risked all for me, to suffer such a dreadful fate? I could not have been so wicked, but for the hope, stronger than all, of again seeing one I loved so dearly; but I have been rightly punished. Alas! I shall never see him more; but even if it were not so, I could not endure the terrible remorse that my selfishness has caused me. You who have been so kind and noble-hearted will help me to bear my lot. I have come to give myself up; you will not—you may not refuse me."

He raised her up and embraced her tenderly, but for a minute or two he could not speak for emotion. "My dear, dear child," said he at length, "you have indeed shown yourself the worthy daughter of a most noble father, and Heaven will reward you for this high-minded and generous act. Nay, I rejoice to say that it has already found its reward. Listen to this," and then, as she stood wondering before him, he read to her the concluding part of Montcalm's letter, which ran thus:

"With regard to a more private matter, I rejoice most heartily that my efforts have at last been attended with success. If it has not already reached you, you will shortly receive from Paris an order cancelling the lettre de cachet under which your prisoners Godefroid and Gabrielle have been detained. I can sympathise with you in the pleasure this will give you as regards the latter; as to the supposed Godefroid of course it matters little beyond the fact that the real object of our solicitude, wherever he may be, is released from the terrible ban involved in the now cancelled warrant. Although many months have elapsed without his making his appearance, I cannot but hope that he is safe, as I may now mention to you in confidence that I sent him, accompanied by the guide Boulanger, to Fort Duquesne in the autumn, and under the peculiar circumstances many things might occur to prolong his absence."

Well might Isidore's young wife fall once more upon her knees to pour out her grateful heart in thanksgiving for tidings which changed her sorrow and despair into joy and hope. Her guardian left her thus engaged whilst he sought out Amoahmeh and communicated to her not only the news of her freedom, but that which seemed to touch her far more deeply, Marguerite's surrender of herself for the purpose of setting her deliverer free.

The two friends were soon locked in each other's arms, and the baron leaving them together went forth to make the needful arrangements for relinquishing his post and proceeding with them to Quebec.



CHAPTER VI.

The month of July was drawing to an end, and the hot sun was glaring down on the parched earth with an almost tropical heat. Even in the dark recesses of the woods, where only here and there a ray could penetrate the thick foliage, there was a sultry closeness that seemed to overpower the wayfarer, instead of his being refreshed by a grateful shade. Look at those two men yonder, one stretched at full length at the foot of a pine-tree, the other kneeling by his side, and bending over him, both apparently exhausted with fatigue. From their thin hands and cheeks, bronzed as they are, one may well believe that want of food has helped to reduce them to their sorry plight, whilst, as a climax to their sufferings, one of them has been lamed by a snake bite, to which the other is applying some large leaves just gathered near at hand.

"'Tis hard upon us that it should come to this, just as we had got within a few miles of our journey's end," said the man who was hurt. "Listen! There is the firing again—a regular volley—and cannon too. They are attacking Ticonderoga, that's certain, just as they did a twelvemonth ago."

Here the speaker gave a groan, but not from pain.

"To think, monsieur," he added, "that you should be here, tending poor Boulanger, as if he were your equal, when you might have been striking a blow yonder for your dear France."

"It is only a pity, my good fellow," replied Isidore, "that I am not a red skin, so that I might find out the right sort of plant to cure this abominable bite and put you on your legs again."

"Never mind me, I beseech you, monsieur," said the Canadian, faintly; "I shall do well enough, I daresay. Only go and make your way to the fort—it cannot be many miles off—and then perhaps you can come and help me later when the enemy are beaten off."

"That I will not," was the reply; "I will die here with you rather than leave you alone."

There was in truth no mere sentiment in the words. Bravely indeed had Isidore borne up for many a long week; but fatigue and privation had told upon him far more than on the more seasoned frame of his companion, and with the misfortune that had befallen the latter, the strong hopes that had sustained him gave way, and he felt that he had no longer strength enough to proceed further.

"To-morrow," said he, with an attempt at an encouraging smile, "to-morrow I shall perhaps be able to carry you."

"To-morrow. Alas!" murmured Boulanger, turning away his face to hide his emotion. Then suddenly he raised himself, and pointed to a clump of undergrowth a few yards off. "Look!" whispered he, "a red skin!"

Isidore started to his feet, and levelled his rifle, but instantly threw it down, and stepping forward cried aloud, "What! my old friend White Eagle of Louisburg! Never was any one more welcome. Make haste and look to my poor comrade."

Without a word the Indian knelt down and examined the bite. Then he strode away, but soon returned with a handful of simples, which he carefully bound round the wounded limb.

"Not rattlesnake," said he quietly, "he will not die."

"I could have told you that, friend," said Boulanger, "but when a man's life depends on his walking on a bit with a leg as big as a bison's, it might just as well have been a rattlesnake for that matter, to say nothing of having had no food but a raw partridge between two of us for some days past."

The Indian opened his pouch and placed before them his little stock of food, of which they eagerly partook. Whilst they were thus engaged he sat a little way apart, to all appearance wholly unconcerned. As soon, however, as the provisions were demolished he arose, and addressing himself to Isidore, said, "Let the young brave follow me. The Canadian must stay here till you can send him help."

"Not a step do I go without him," replied Isidore, firmly. "If he stays here, I stay here too."

For a moment the expression on the chief's face seemed to bode no good, but it passed away, and after a short pause he set to work without a word, and in a few minutes had cut down a dozen branches from the nearest trees, and wound them into a rude litter. Then silently taking Boulanger up, and laying him upon it as if he had been a mere child, he took hold of one end of the litter, and signed to Isidore to take the other. He did so, and they at once set out with it, the savage threading the way through the dense forest with the most marvellous dexterity, and at a pace with which Isidore found it no easy matter to keep up. Refreshed as he had been by the food he had taken, and buoyed up as he now was by fresh hope on Boulanger's account as well as his own, he nevertheless felt that a march of any great length would be beyond his strength. Perhaps the Indian noticed this, for he presently slackened his pace.

"I hope we have done right to trust this fellow," Isidore said.

"There is nothing to fear," replied Boulanger. "If he had meant mischief our scalps would long ago have been hanging by the side of those others he has at his belt."

All this while they were gradually edging away from the sound of the firing, which could now only be heard at a remote distance on their right.

The Indian slackened his pace still more, and seemed to be listening eagerly as if for some expected sound. Suddenly he stopped, and the litter having been deposited on the ground, he turned to Isidore, saying, "White Eagle has finished his task." At the same moment he raised his rifle and discharged it in the air, and before the astonished wayfarers could utter a word in reply, he had darted into the thick wood and disappeared.

"It beats me altogether," said Boulanger; "he has brought us ever so far away from the fort, and yet I can't think why he should start off like that. He belongs to one of the Algonquin tribes, and they used to be allies of ours. Hush! There is some one not far off."

"Qui vive?" shouted a voice from the underwood near them.

"French! Long live King Louis!" cried Isidore, in reply.

The usual challenge followed, and shortly afterwards a French officer cautiously emerged from the brushwood, followed by a couple of his men. He seemed not a little astonished on discovering the number and condition of the supposed enemy, and roughly demanded who they were, and whence they came.

"Well, I suppose," replied Isidore, with a grim smile, "I must not feel insulted if my friend de Montenac fails to recognise in such a scarecrow his old comrade de Beaujardin."

"De Beaujardin!" exclaimed the officer, amazed and apparently horrified. "For Heaven's sake, how came you in this pitiable state? Stop, not a word," he added, "you are in no condition for talking now. Quick, my men, bring the wounded man along." Then taking Isidore's arm he led him away, followed by the soldiers, who at once took Boulanger under their charge. In a short time they reached an open space in the forest, where to his great joy Isidore found a considerable body of French soldiers regularly encamped. De Montenac, however, would listen to no questions until the wayfarers had been, not only well fed, but furnished with some better covering than the rags that hung about them.

The short Canadian twilight was gone, and night had come on, as Isidore related to his friend as much of his story as it seemed necessary to tell him. He concluded thus:—

"They kept us at Fort Duquesne all the winter, possibly not knowing exactly what to do with me, and a couple of months ago sent us off in charge of two burly New England militiamen, though I never knew what was our intended destination. These British are always boasting that one Englishman is a match for three Frenchmen, so I suppose they thought that two must be quite enough to guard a couple of miserable half-starved creatures like Boulanger and myself. They had not even taken the trouble to tie our hands, but simply made us go on in front. During the second day's march I noticed that they had both taken too much to drink, so just as we were going down a steep hill, at a signal we had preconcerted we dropped down right in front of them, and over our backs they went like a shot. Long before they could scramble up we had got hold of their muskets, and they were rather obliged than otherwise by our letting them decamp without giving them each a bullet by way of souvenir. Thanks to Boulanger's knowledge of his craft we have arrived here at last, though it has been no easy matter, I can assure you."

"I quite believe that, judging from your appearance," replied de Montenac laughing; "but I must now go my rounds, and after that you shall hear what news there is with us."

He was absent much longer than was required merely to visit the pickets. Isidore's practised ears indeed told him that there had been an alarm of some kind, and a shot had been fired in the wood. At last de Montenac made his appearance.

"The strangest thing has just now happened," said he. "My men caught a spy. He had managed to pass the sentinels, when one of them saw the fellow creeping away among the bushes, and as he did not answer or stop, the man shot him dead. I found on him a note of our strength, to say nothing of some English guineas, so the rascal fully deserved a rope instead of a bullet, but in one of his pockets I came upon this." Here de Montenac handed to Isidore a sheet of paper, the writing on which ran as follows:—

"To all whom it may concern.

"This is to certify that the person designated in a royal warrant as Isidore Marquis de Beaujardin, otherwise known as Godefroid, confined here during the royal pleasure, is released from further detention, and the authorities, whether civil or military, are required to permit him to pass freely.

"(Signed) DE VALRICOUR,

"Colonel Commandant of the Fort of Sorel."

Isidore sprang to his feet. "Where is the man?" he gasped out.

"You can see him; he lies dead not a hundred yards off." In a couple of minutes they had reached the spot, and Isidore no sooner beheld the upturned face of the dead man then he exclaimed, "Just Heaven! it is Jasmin."

As soon as he had recovered from the excitement into which this discovery had thrown him, Isidore acquainted his friend with the more private details of his story. "I must start at once for Sorel," said he; "I scarcely dare to hope it, but it may be that my unhappy wife was or is still detained there, and if so, with Heaven's blessing I may see her again. I shall indeed be thankful if my Uncle de Valricour has been her gaoler."

"Then you can march with us, at least a part of the way," said do Montenac. "Listen! there it goes." As he spoke, an explosion like a peal of thunder was heard in the distance. "De Bourlemaque has evacuated Fort Ticonderoga and blown it up," added he. "We have been stationed here to guard against a flank movement and to keep open the road to Crown Point, on which we are to fall back."

"What! retreat without a fight!" exclaimed Isidore.

"We have scarce three or four thousand men to Amherst's twelve or fourteen thousand, and he is not an Abercromby to run his head against a wall for nothing. I believe we are not even going to hold Crown Point, strong as it is. No, no; forty or fifty leagues of well-nigh impassable country lie between this and the St. Lawrence, as you ought to know, Master Isidore, and that will fight for us without our losing a man. Amherst can only advance by water, and as we have armed vessels on the lake and he has not, why there is as much chance of his doing anything before the winter sets in again, as there is of my being made a Field Marshal."

Thanks to the Indian's simple medicines, and the subsequent care of the regimental surgeon, Boulanger was doing well, and was able, on the following day, to accomplish the short march made by the detachment. Nor was Isidore at first sufficiently strong to do more. They accordingly accompanied the troops as far as Crown Point, and then pushed forward alone. The journey which the travellers had undertaken was long and difficult. On reaching the northern end of Lake Champlain, however, they obtained a small canoe, in which they descended the Richelieu River, and thus reached Sorel.

Here Isidore, to his great disappointment, found that Baron de Valricour was no longer commandant of the place, and had quitted it for Quebec early in June. During the three months that had elapsed the little garrison had been changed, and the few guarded inquiries which he ventured to make respecting any persons formerly detained in the fort proved fruitless.

There was nothing for it but to go on to Quebec, where Boulanger indeed was anxious to rejoin his family, and they accordingly continued their journey, traversing Lake St. Peter, and passing down the St. Lawrence in their canoe. To their surprise and mortification they now found that for a considerable distance above Quebec small vessels belonging to the English fleet had the command of the river. Still they made their way onward, once or twice narrowly escaping capture by an English cutter, until they reached a spot called Le Foullon, about three miles above the great fortress, where a rugged and winding footpath led to the top of the lofty and precipitous cliff not far from the Canadian's cottage.

Arrived at the summit, they were instantly challenged, and then taken to the officer in command of the detachment posted there. De Montenac had taken the precaution to obtain for Isidore a despatch from General de Bourlemaque to Montcalm, and he was at once allowed to pass, as was Boulanger also when it was found that he was actually the proprietor of the house which had been appropriated as the captain's quarters. As to Bibi and the little ones, the Canadian ascertained that they had taken refuge in a less exposed locality near the city.

On entering the fortress, Isidore at once made his way through the town, and was then directed to the citadel. There, on the extreme and loftiest point, where the white flag of France still waved, stood Montcalm, "that little body with a mighty soul," surveying the vast landscape spread out below. In front lay the great lake-like sheet of water, six miles in length, and nearly half as broad, formed by the confluence of the St. Lawrence on the right, and the smaller river, St. Charles, on the left. Far away the united streams are again divided into a northern and southern channel by the picturesque Isle of Orleans. To the right hand is seen Point Levi, and the almost perpendicular banks of the St. Lawrence; on the left the more gradually sloping shore presents a long line of intrenchments and redoubts, reaching to a distance of seven or eight miles, ending at the great chasm into which the Montmorency River hurls down its waters in a fall of two hundred and fifty feet. Ranges of lofty mountains on every side form the fitting background of this unrivalled scene.

Montcalm's eyes were riveted on the English fleet, whose countless masts bristled all across the further end of the bay, and down the diverging channels beyond it; so deeply indeed was he buried in thought that he did not seem aware of Isidore's approach until the latter was close to him. He then turned abruptly and looked at the new-comer, but it was only for a moment.

"Welcome, welcome indeed!" said he, extending his hand, "not as Claude Breton however, but as my valued friend and comrade-in-arms, Isidore de Beaujardin."

"I can well believe that I have to thank Monseigneur for that," replied Isidore, bowing.

Montcalm waved his hand: "It was no more than was due to you," said he. "Fortunately a certain M. de Crillon, who seems to have been your evil genius, has been disgraced at last, and the task became an easy one. But whence do you now come, and what news do you bring?"

"As for myself, I must report to you, pro forma, that I duly reached Fort Duquesne, where I was made prisoner, but subsequently escaped, and made my way to Ticonderoga. I left the army on this side of Crown Point, which has been evacuated, and I have to hand to you a despatch from de Bourlemaque. There is not a chance of Amherst reaching the St. Lawrence in time to co-operate with Wolfe."

"Thanks for that, at all events. My news is less cheering: Niagara is lost."

"I had hoped," said Isidore, "that Pouchot would have been able to hold out."

"Not so. The English General Prideaux was killed by the bursting of a shell in his own intrenchments, but Sir William Johnson took the command, and nothing could withstand that brave and skilful fellow. Aubrey came to Pouchot's relief with at least a thousand men collected from the other forts, but was beaten in a pitched battle before the place, which had to surrender at discretion, and the governor and garrison were made prisoners, but were allowed to march out with the honours of war. This and the loss of Frontenac make the English masters of all the upper country."

"But here," exclaimed Isidore, eagerly, "here we may yet retrieve it all."

"If it so please God," replied Montcalm; "but though all hope is not yet gone, our chance is but slender. We have kept the enemy at bay for nearly two months and a half, and on the last day of July we foiled a desperate attack which Wolfe made on the Montmorency redoubts yonder. If we could hold out till winter comes to our aid all would be well, but I have little hope."

"They are masters of all the right bank, are they not?" interposed Isidore.

"Yes, for many miles up the river. If I had had my way I would have thrown a couple of thousand men across and stopped that game, but de Vaudreuil overruled me at the outset. He is a traitor, and has ruined us. What can I do with barely three thousand regulars? The Canadian militia are indeed some five or six thousand strong, but I cannot rely on them with any certainty, and with such a fleet at his command it is impossible to say where Wolfe may next assail us. Look at it! A score of ships of the line, with frigates and transports out of number."

"But they have been here since the end of June and have done nothing. This bank of the river is absolutely impregnable, and it seems they cannot force the Montmorency lines."

"It is our last and only chance," replied Montcalm, "and if the worst should come, a battle before Quebec might save us. I have had, however, to send away a couple of thousand Canadians to try and save some of the harvest, which is sorely needed, for our commissariat is reduced almost to the last extremity. Yes, de Beaujardin," he added, "there is nothing left for me but to hold out and fight to the last, and die a soldier's death. I would not wish to live to see the fall of New France, but that must surely come. But de Valricour has of course told you——"

"I have not seen him yet. I came direct to you to report myself," said Isidore.

"Not seen him!" cried Montcalm in amazement; "but I might have expected that from you. Go—go at once—good news is in store for you at all events, and you are worthy of it." Then turning to an officer who had just come up, he added, "Send an orderly with this gentleman to Colonel de Valricour's quarters. Stay; Colonel de Beaujardin is reappointed to his old position on the staff. See to this at once."

Isidore would have thanked him, but Montcalm was already reading the despatch just brought to him, and with a full heart the young soldier bent his steps towards his uncle's quarters.

Passing out of the citadel, he had proceeded but a short distance when the orderly stopped.

"Here!" exclaimed Isidore, with some agitation, for the house pointed out to him was the very one in which Madame de Rocheval had resided, and where he had seen Marguerite for the first time.

Another orderly at the door bade him enter. He did so, and ascended the stairs as if in a dream. He did not even hear the man announce him, and as he stood at the open door of the saloon his eyes grew dim, and he could see nothing; but he heard a voice cry out, "Isidore! my husband!" and Marguerite was clasped in his arms.



CHAPTER VII.

It will be remembered that when M. de Valricour quitted France in order to return to Canada he promised the Marquis de Beaujardin that he would do his best to find Isidore, and report whatever he might learn respecting him. In those days, however, the communication between New and Old France was slow and uncertain enough, and it was not until the ensuing spring that the marquis received any tidings respecting his son. From what he then heard it could scarcely be doubted that Isidore was in Canada, and de Valricour was able to inform his brother-in-law not only that Marguerite had been a prisoner at Sorel, and had subsequently escaped through the devotion of Amoahmeh, but that Jasmin was actually a prisoner there. He was further enabled to send to the marquis the mutilated letter supposed to have been destroyed by Isidore, and this circumstance not only cleared away that imputation, but proved beyond question that Isidore had had grounds for supposing that his father had no objection to his union with Marguerite.

Full of remorse for his unjust suspicions, the marquis felt his old affection for his son revive more strongly than ever, and when he subsequently received further accounts to the effect that Isidore had gone to Fort Duquesne, but that he had not since been heard of, he could no longer restrain his ardent longing to seek out his lost son, and do him at least some tardy justice. In the first place, however, he proceeded to Paris in order that he might use all his influence to ascertain how matters stood in regard to the lettre de cachet, and, if possible, to obtain its revocation. To his astonishment he found that, through the influence of Montcalm, the king's warrant had already been cancelled; but about Isidore himself he could learn nothing, and he consequently resolved to proceed at once to Canada in search of him.

He had, however, by this time learned by experience that any plan of his might be thwarted if it once came to the ears of Madame de Valricour, and without even communicating his intentions to the marchioness, he returned home by way of Nantes, where he made arrangements for his voyage to Quebec. This was no easy matter; it was well known that the English fleet was already on its way up the St. Lawrence with General Wolfe's army to undertake the siege of Quebec, and French vessels could no longer hope to reach that place. But the marquis was prepared to pay almost any sum for the accomplishment of his object, and with the help of Jean Perigord the innkeeper he at last prevailed on a certain Maitre Duboscq to undertake the task, and endeavour at least to land the marquis as near Quebec as possible. This being settled, M. de Beaujardin proceeded home to take leave of his wife and inform her of his purpose.

He had reckoned without his host, and little knew that Madame de Valricour was well informed of all his movements. No sooner had he reached the chateau than that lady calmly informed him that she had resolved to go out and join her husband, and would feel indebted to him if he would write to Nantes and procure a passage for her.

Thoroughly convinced that the object of the voyage could only be to search out or to meet with Isidore, she felt that if she allowed the marquis to proceed alone her long cherished schemes would be wrecked at last and she resolved, come what might, to accompany him. Argument and persuasion were alike unavailing. There was nothing for it but to offer to take her out in the "Pompadour." Nor was she the only person who was destined to accompany the marquis, for on hearing of his intention old Perigord besought him with tears in his eyes to let him go too: "Monseigneur," said he, "I have served you faithfully from my cradle, do not compel me to leave yon. Let me, too, see my young master once more before I die."

It was not the first time, by a score, that Duboscq had threaded the mazy channels of the St. Lawrence, or that he had baffled the pursuit of an English cruiser. The "Pompadour" was a tight little ship, and well in hand, swift, and drawing but little water, but much caution was required, and the voyage was a long one. Passing northwards through the Straits of Belle Isle to avoid the track of the English fleet, the "Pompadour" made a splendid run up the St. Lawrence, eluding one British vessel, and fairly out-sailing another, and at last came in sight of the rugged bluffs of Cape Tourment, about a dozen leagues below Quebec. It was, however, late in the afternoon, and as there was no hope of their reaching Quebec that evening the "Pompadour" hove to, and was about to anchor for the night, when Duboscq descried an English sloop of war about a couple of miles off, right ahead and standing towards them, and he at once went below to consult with the marquis, who immediately returned with him on deck.

It was evident that they had been seen by the English sloop, and the danger was imminent. The marquis took in the situation at a glance: "The 'Pompadour' cannot escape, but we may yet do so," said he to Duboscq. "You have done your best hitherto, and I will indemnify you for the loss of your vessel. Lower your boat at once, and we may all reach the shore before the Englishman comes up. We may as well be captured on shore, if we are to see the inside of an English prison, but we may be able to make our way by land to Quebec."

The boat was soon lowered, but it would only hold three persons besides the two men required to row it; and Duboscq, as steersman, who, after landing their passengers, would have to return to fetch off the remainder of the crew. The marquis, with Madame de Valricour and Perigord, at once stepped into the boat, and as the beach was not far off, they were quickly rowed to the shore. "Now," said Duboscq, when they were fairly landed, "push on into the wood straight ahead, and I will join you there. We shall give our friends the slip after all, thanks to monsieur's suggestion."

The little party did as they were told, and presently stopped to await the coming of the others; but they waited in vain, and were destined soon to find out that they had only escaped one danger to rush upon another. From a lofty point overhanging the river an Indian scout had watched all that had occurred. Suddenly the wood rang with a terrible war-whoop, and half a dozen savages darted through the trees and came upon the panic-stricken group. The chief, who was a little in advance, sprang towards Perigord, but on perceiving that the party consisted only of two unarmed men and a woman, stopped short, making a sign to his followers to do the same. Then, contemptuously flinging old Perigord down, he snatched from him an ornamented casket which he was clutching in his hands: it was his master's strong box, which he had rescued at the last moment, and brought away with him from the ship. Wrenching it open the savage drew out the first thing that came to hand: it was the ribbon and order of St. Louis.

With an exclamation of surprise he held it up and examined it. He had seen the like once or twice before, but only on the breasts of Montcalm and Governor de Vaudreuil.

"Whose is this? Who are you?" said he, quickly regarding the old chef with evident astonishment.

"It belongs to the Marquis de Beaujardin," replied Perigord, piteously.

"Beaujardin! Beaujardin!" answered the Indian, with increasing amazement. "There is one of that name in the camp. Who is this Beaujardin?"

"His father—his father!" exclaimed Perigord. "Have you seen him? Is he at Quebec? My poor Isidore! He was lost, and we have come out here to seek him.'

"Yes, Isidore—that is his name," replied the chief; and with that he turned to his warriors, and spoke to them rapidly, gesticulating vehemently all the while.

Perigord would have questioned him further, but the chief at first took no heed of him; after some further conference, however, he once more addressed his excited prisoner, saying, "It is well—the Frenchman shall see his son again."

"But in one thing you are mistaken," cried Perigord, with animation. "Yonder is his father—it is not I."

In some surprise the Indian looked first at one and then at the other, scanning alternately the plain suit which the marquis had been accustomed to wear on board ship, and the full dress costume in which old Perigord invariably waited on him. But apart from these the fiery black eyes, the dark complexion, and even the hooked nose of old Achille, and most of all the tears which had betrayed his emotion on hearing the name of Isidore, would have sufficed to settle the question.

"Is a chief of the Algonquins an owl that he cannot see in broad daylight?" said the Indian, contemptuously. "Does the cunning Frenchman think that a warrior of the red skins does not know the difference between a wild goose and an eagle?"

Then without further parley he gave the word for the march, and the amazed and terrified prisoners were hurried away into the woods.



CHAPTER VIII.

It is scarcely to be wondered at that, amid such events as were daily passing around her, poor Bibi had begun to despair of ever seeing her husband again. His avocations had often enough taken him away for a month or two, but more than a year had now elapsed without her even hearing of him. Proportionably great was her surprise and joy at his sudden re-appearance, and his happiness was not less real at seeing once more those he so dearly loved. What with Bibi's eager questions, and the prattle of the little ones, an hour or two had glided away swiftly enough, when Boulanger suddenly asked what had become of Amoahmeh.

Bibi shook her head. "She has been living here with us for some months," said she, "helping and comforting me as she only could do; but I am afraid that those horrid Indians have got hold of her again. Only this morning there was one lurking about here, and I am sure Amoahmeh must have seen him, for she has hardly spoken a word all day, and looked quite miserable. Just before you came she threw her arms around my neck, and said that very likely I should never see her again; and when I began to cry, and begged her to tell me what was the matter, she tried to cheer me by saying that she was only going to 'The Steps'—you know the place, up there on the Montmorency River. Then, before I could say another word, she was gone. In my joy at seeing you again I had forgotten all about it, that's a fact."

Boulanger's countenance fell, and after musing a while he said, "That's strange. Are there any Algonquins about here?"

"Oh, they are on the English side now," answered Bibi. "I heard only yesterday that a number of them, under a chief called White Eagle, had come into the English camp at Montmorency."

The Canadian started up. "And she has been so good to you whilst I have been away!" said he. "Put the little ones to bed, Bibi. I'll go up to the 'Steps' and see if I can find out what she is at."

"I wish you would," said Bibi. "I am quite anxious about her; but come back as soon as you can."

Boulanger kissed his wife and children, and then, shouldering his rifle, he quitted the cottage.

There are few spots near Quebec more picturesque than those so-called "Natural Steps" on the Montmorency River. Between almost perpendicular rocks, that look like huge stone towers, or the ruins of ancient walls, the little river foams and rushes along, over and between great flat slabs of stone, which here and there assume the shape of steps as regular as if the hand of man had fashioned them. The summits of the castellated banks are crowned with trees, and wherever their rocky steepness will allow of it, luxuriant shrubs grow in profusion from every crevice, and add another charm to the wild beauty of the scene.

Long had Amoahmeh stood alone on one of those rocky steps, pale and anxious, and evidently expecting some one to meet her there. He came at last, and White Eagle stood before her.

For a short time neither of them spoke; each seemed under some strange constraint. Perhaps the Indian could not shake off the awe with which his race regard all those who are, or have been, deprived of the light of reason. Amoahmeh had risen above such childish superstitions, but she seemed as though the chief possessed some hold over her which had power to subdue even her lofty spirit. She was the first to speak.

"White Eagle has bidden me come here. What would he have of me?"

"Can the daughter of War-thunder ask?" was the reply. "Did she not promise that if I brought back the young French brave from Fort Duquesne the wigwam of the chief of the Algonquins should remain no longer empty. He is safe in Quebec and among his friends; Amoahmeh will keep her promise."

"To whom did she give that promise? To a great chief who fought under the flag of France, ay, and one who professed to have forsaken the worship of Manitou for a holier faith. What is White Eagle now that he should ask her, or even wish her, to keep that promise?"

"He is not a girl that he should kneel at the bidding of a French priest," retorted the Indian, with evident irritation, "nor a child that he should let a squaw choose for him what war-path he shall tread. Is Amoahmeh a cheating French trader, who, when he has gotten the red skin's peltries that he bargained for, refuses to pay for them? She will keep faith."

"Faith!" replied Amoahmeh, indignantly. "How dares White Eagle even name the word with the scalps of the friends he swore to fight for to the death hanging at his belt? Amoahmeh at least will never desert those she loves."

"Ay," rejoined the chief, passionately, "her white soul only loves the pale faces; she hates the red skin now, and would fain be happy in the wigwam of the young French warrior."

"Why does the great chief talk like a whining child?" said she, at once regaining her wonted composure. "Amoahmeh does indeed love the French brave, but it is with a sister's affection for one without whom she never could have known the way to happiness here and hereafter. Beyond this he is nought to her. He has a bride already, and it was even for her sake that Amoahmeh gave the hasty, the wicked promise that White Eagle wrung from her as the price of his help. She will yet keep it, yes, even though her heart should break, if he still bids her do so; but what she has not promised she will not do at his bidding. She will not forsake her faith, nor will she rejoice when his warriors come back from the war-path with the spoils of slaughtered Frenchmen. Let White Eagle choose, but let him beware, lest when the Algonquins again see the face of the daughter of War-thunder, and hear her voice, they dig up again the hatchet that they buried at the false counsel of White Eagle, and shout once more the war-cry of 'France and King Louis!'"

"That they shall never do!" exclaimed the Indian fiercely. "Listen! Amoahmeh is free. Let her go her way, but not with the glad heart she hoped for. Manitou has even now given into White Eagle's hand the father and the kinswoman of the young French brave. Amoahmeh might have saved them. Now let her come with me and see them die."

With these words the Indian grasped his tomahawk and sprang up the rugged path. As he reached the top of the bank he turned and waved the weapon aloft, as if to beckon after him the amazed and agitated girl. At the same moment Boulanger started up from the underwood, and with one sweep of his clubbed rifle dashed the deadly hatchet from his hand, then with another stroke he laid the savage at his feet.

To pinion the prostrate Indian's arms with his belt was the work of a minute; another sufficed for Boulanger to tear a couple of withes from a bush, and bind him securely by the ankles to the nearest tree.

"So you have gone over to the English, have you?" said he sternly, as the half-stunned chief began to recover a little. "By rights, I suppose I ought to have shot you down without mercy; but luckily for you I have not quite forgotten our last meeting in the woods."

As the Canadian uttered these words the sharp rattle of half a dozen muskets was heard at a short distance down the river. Then followed shouts, mingled with the terrific war-whoop, at which the dark form of White Eagle seemed to quiver from head to foot. Then all became still again.

Boulanger, with his knee on the Indian's chest, had listened to the sounds with breathless anxiety.

"The red skins have had the worst of that," said he at last, as he arose and grasped his rifle; "but there is something going wrong, or we should have heard more of it. Follow me, Amoahmeh."

Forcing their way through the dense wood for three or four hundred yards along the crest of the bank, they came at length to an opening through which they heard the sound of voices, and passing through the gap they were soon looking down upon the scene below.

There on the border of the stream stood a group of Canadian militia leaning on their muskets. Two or three Indians lay dead upon the ground, and near them lay also a female figure, by the side of which, with his hands clasped and his head bowed down, stood the Baron de Valricour. There was another prostrate figure, that of a spare old man, to whom two persons seemed to be attending. One of them was Isidore, the other Boulanger did not recognise—it was the Marquis de Beaujardin.

The story was soon told. That afternoon Jacques Duboscq, who had been captured on his return to the "Pompadour" had been considerately sent on shore by the commander of the English sloop in order that he might inform the Baron de Valricour of the circumstances under which Madame de Valricour and the marquis had been put on shore at Cape Tourment two days before. On hastening to the military offices to see if any steps could be taken on behalf of their relatives, should they have fallen into the hands of the English, the baron and Isidore found that an Indian scout or spy had just come in with the intelligence that some Algonquins with three French prisoners had been seen that day encamped on the Montmorency River. In less than an hour Isidore and his uncle had set out for the spot, accompanied by a small body of picked men, and, guided by the scouts, they took the Indians completely by surprise, killing or dispersing them with a single volley. With instinctive ferocity, however, one of the savages had struck Madame de Valricour dead, whilst another singled out the marquis, as he supposed, and grievously wounded poor Perigord.

Two rude litters were soon made by some of the Canadians, on one of which they laid the body of Madame de Valricour, on the other they placed old Perigord, and the party then set out for the lines at Montmorency. They had not gone far before the attention of Amoahmeh and the Canadian was attracted by a sound like the scream of an eagle, which was immediately echoed from afar: "Yes, our friend yonder is calling to his eaglets," said Boulanger, "and they hear him; but we can laugh at them and him too now."

On the way the marquis kept by the side of his old servant, more than once expressing his grief at what had befallen him.

"Nay, monseigneur," replied Perigord, smiling in spite of the pain he was evidently enduring, "do not mind about me. It was fortunate that those stupid savages mistook me for my betters. Besides, have I not seen my dear young master once again?"

Dear old Achille! These were the last words he spoke. When they reached the lines at Montmorency he was dead. The scheming and haughty baroness and the humble and faithful servitor had met the same fate. Death does indeed bring us all down to one level, but only in the grave—not beyond it.



CHAPTER IX.

The Marquis de Beaujardin and his son had met again, but under circumstances distressing enough to both of them, and it was with sorrowful hearts that they now proceeded together to Quebec. As they passed through the village of Beauport on their way, they became aware that a large portion of the English fleet had approached the shore, and was to all appearance making preparations for a repetition of the attack made on the neighbouring redoubts some weeks before, whilst other vessels were standing on towards Quebec. Night came on as Isidore and his father reached the town; there all was bustle and excitement, and every one was anticipating a fresh attack on the Montmorency lines before daybreak.

There was an attack indeed, but not in the quarter where Montcalm expected it. Before daybreak on the following morning the great mass of the enemy's forces, which had been secretly carried past the town to a considerable distance up the river during the night, was stealthily dropping down again, and was then landed on the beach at Le Foullon, now immortalised by the name of "Wolfe's Cove."

History scarcely contains a more exciting chapter than that which records this daring plan, and the equally daring manner in which it was achieved. Leading his troops up by a single narrow and rugged path—the Highlanders actually climbing up the precipitous face of the cliff itself—Wolfe had by daybreak arrayed his little army of between four and five thousand men on the Plains of Abraham, only a mile from the ramparts of the fortress. A couple of hours later Montcalm had led out his forces to try the issue of a pitched battle before Quebec.

At first the French outflanked and forced back the English left, but with a timely reinforcement Townsend stopped their further progress. There was, at the same time, some desultory fighting on Wolfe's right, which extended to the lofty banks of the St. Lawrence, but the decisive conflict took place in the centre, in which Montcalm had placed his few battalions of French regulars. These advanced with the greatest gallantry, inflicting serious loss on the English by their rapid and well-sustained fire, which, however, was not returned, for Wolfe was riding along the line encouraging his men, and forbidding a single shot until the word should be given. On came the French with loud shouts, advancing to within forty or fifty paces of the British line; then with one tremendous ringing volley the fate of the day was decided. The hitherto serried and continuous line of the French veterans was simply broken up into scattered and shapeless fragments, which nevertheless still tried to advance. They were, however, met with a charge which soon completed their discomfiture, and the battle was won. De Bougainville indeed subsequently came up and threatened an attack in the rear, but the bold front made by the English compelled him to draw off again without any serious attempt to molest the victors.

The story of Wolfe's last words, and of his death whilst the shout of victory was sounding in his ears, is an oft-told tale, and needs not to be repeated here. He had received three wounds, of which the last was fatal. Carleton and Monckton, too, had been severely wounded, and Townsend had to take the command. Nor had the French superior officers been more fortunate. De Senezergues and St. Ours were both struck down, and at last Montcalm himself was mortally wounded; but he refused to quit the field until he had seen the shattered remnants of his army safe within the protecting walls of Quebec.

Montcalm has been accused of infatuation in risking a battle on the open plain; but the charge savours perhaps of being wise after the event. With his customary candour he certainly declared, after the battle, that with such troops as the English had proved themselves he would have defeated thrice the number of such as he had himself commanded. But it was only on that day that he had learned how English troops could fight, and he might well be excused if he remembered how he had repulsed them at Ticonderoga. His force, moreover, though chiefly consisting of Canadian militia, on whom he could place no great reliance, was numerically double that of Wolfe, whilst the new position of the enemy on the plain before Quebec cut off all his resources, and any hope of succour from France was out of the question. A battle won might end the campaign for that year with honour, and his chivalrous spirit would not decline the challenge. He fought, and though he was defeated, friend and foe alike admired him and did him justice. After passing the night in religious exercises, he died on the day after the battle, and was buried in the garden of the Ursuline Convent, in a cavity made by the bursting of a shell—a fitting grave for such a warrior.

Almost the last to retreat within the ramparts of the citadel were a score or so of veterans belonging to Isidore's former regiment. Not having yet received any regular appointment, he had fought with his old corps as a volunteer all the morning, and most of the officers being by that time killed or wounded, he had tacitly assumed the command of this little band. They had nearly reached the gate of St. Louis when they once more heard the terrible war-whoop close in their rear, and as they faced about for the last time, a body of Indians came sweeping towards them from some broken ground near the river's bank.

"Stand fast, men, and give those fellows a parting salute," cried Isidore. The order was obeyed, and with such effect that the Indians stopped in their wild onset, and then fell back a little. One alone held his ground. He was their chief, and by the tuft of snowy feathers and ribbons that fluttered above his head he was recognised at once by Isidore and by Boulanger, who stood by his side, all begrimed with dust and smoke, and clutching in his hand the barrel of his broken rifle. It was White Eagle.

For a few moments faint and dizzy with loss of blood, for he had been wounded without knowing it, Isidore felt a strange half-conscious stupor come over him. Was this all a dream about the horrible massacre at Fort William Henry? There before him stood the very savage who had struck him down; there were the shouts, the shrieks of wounded men; there, too, was the dark figure darting swiftly past and placing itself right in front of him.

"Fire, fire! Be quick!" shouted Boulanger, as the Indian raised his rifle. It sent forth a flash and a puff of smoke, but the report was lost in the discharge of a dozen French muskets, which stretched the Indian dead upon the grass.

It was too late. With a loud cry Amoahmeh dropped down at Isidore's feet. Flinging away his sword he knelt beside her, and raised her up a little. She gave him one grateful parting look, murmuring faintly, "Amoahmeh knows where—it was you who told her." Then she closed her eyes, and Isidore knew that her brave and loving spirit had fled.



Meanwhile the Indians, daunted by the stern reception they had met with, and by the loss of their chief, had fallen back in disorder, and the little troop that had discomfited them withdrew within the gates. Isidore and Boulanger were the last to enter, the Canadian bearing in his arms, as tenderly as if it had been one of his own sleeping children, the lifeless body of Amoahmeh.



CHAPTER X.

CONCLUSION.

Four days later de Ramsey surrendered the fortress of Quebec, and with the fall of this last stronghold the conquest of New France was virtually accomplished. The French, under the Chevalier de Levi, did indeed commence operations in the ensuing spring, and they even attempted to retake Quebec, mustering about ten thousand men on the scene of the previous year's engagement. Murray, with a force amounting to less than one-third of that number, came out and gave them battle, but was worsted, and had to take shelter behind his ramparts; nevertheless the enemy subsequently withdrew without effecting anything beyond that barren success. The great drama, however, was drawing to a close. Amherst descending with his army from Oswego, Murray ascending from Quebec, and Haviland approaching from Lake Champlain, converged upon Montreal; and so admirably was the plan of the campaign carried out that during the first week of September, 1760, an aggregate force of sixteen thousand men made their appearance before the defenceless city. On the 8th of that month Governor de Vaudreuil signed a capitulation, not in respect of Montreal only, but of the whole colony. Its inhabitants passed, for the most part with little reluctance, under the British sceptre. France had impoverished and disgusted them by misgovernment, and by over-government had destroyed in them all energy and self-reliance. Thus Canada became a British dependency, and there was no longer a New France. Under the terms of the capitulation all French troops with their officers, as well as the civil authorities with their families, were removed to France in British vessels; and thus it came about that those whose story has been told in these pages found themselves again in their native home.

The grant of a seigneury on the banks of the St. Lawrence previous to the cession of the colony had restored the decayed fortunes of the Baron de Valricour, and he subsequently returned thither with Clotilde, whose descendants hold a high position amongst the old French noblesse in Canada to this day.

In the course of a few years the marquis died, and Isidore and Marguerite came into possession of the fair domains of Beaujardin. It may be added that whilst there was not one amongst all the tenants and dependants on the estate who did not regret the loss of their old master, they soon found reason to acknowledge that they were not less fortunate in his successor.



THE END.



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A West Country Story. By G. MANVILLE FENN. With Five page Woodcuts.

Cruise of the "Dainty" (The);

Or, Rovings in the Pacific. By the late W. H. G. KINGSTON. With Three page Illustrations.

Dick Darlington, at Home and Abroad.

By A. H. ENGELBACH, Author of "Juanita," &c. With Three page Illustrations.

Dodo: an Ugly Little Boy; or, Handsome is that Handsome does.

By E. EVERETT GREEN. With Three page Illustrations.

Fire-flies and Mosquitoes.

By F. FRANKFORT MOORE. With Four page Illustrations.

Fortunes of Hassan (The);

Being the Strange Story of a Turkish Refugee as told by himself. By the Author of "Our Valley." With Three page Illustrations.

Frontier Fort (The);

Or, Stirring Times in the North-West Territory of British America. By the late W. H. G. KINGSTON. With Three page Illustrations.

Great Captain (The).

An Eventful Chapter in Spanish History. By ULICK R. BURKE, M.A. With Two page Illustrations.

"Great Orion" (The).

By Mrs. MOLESWORTH, Author of "Carrots." With Three page Illustrations.

Harry's Discipline.

By LAURA M. LANE, Author of "A Character," &c. With Three page Illustrations.

Hasselaers (The).

A Tale of Courage and Endurance. By Mrs. FRANK COOPER. With Three page Illustrations.

Her Will and Her Way, and other Stories.

By Mrs. NEWMAN, Author of "Getting On," &c. With Three page Illustrations.

Heroes of the Arctic and their Adventures (The).

By FREDERICK WHYMPER, Esq. With Map, Eight page Woodcuts, and numerous smaller engravings.

Hide and Seek.

A Story of the New Forest in 1647. By Mrs. FRANK COOPER, Author of "The Hasselaers," &c. With Three page Illustrations.

Jungle Jack;

Or, to the East after Elephants. By CHARLES H. EDEN. With Four page Woodcuts.

King's Marden.

By the Author of "Our Valley," &c. With Four page Illustrations.

King's Warrant (The).

A Tale of Old and New France. By A. H. ENGELBACH, Author of "Lionel's Revenge," &c. With Three page Illustrations.

Kitty Bligh's Birthday.

By A. H. ENGELBACH, Author of "Juanita," &c. With Three page Illustrations.

Lapsed, not Lost.

A Story of Roman Carthage. By the Author of "The Schoenberg-Cotta Family," &c.

Lettice.

By F. FRANKFORT MOORE, Author of "Will's Voyages." With Four page Woodcuts.

Marcel's Duty.

A Story of War Time. By MARY E. PALGRAVE, Author of "John Holbrook's Lessons." With Three page Illustrations.

Mike.

A Tale of the Great Irish Famine. By the Author of "Between the Locks," &c. With Three page Illustrations.

Pillars of Success (The).

By CRONA TEMPLE, Author of "Griffinhoof," &c. With Three page Illustrations.

Reclaimed.

A Tale by A. EUBULE-EVANS. With Three page Illustrations.

Slavers and Cruisers.

By the late S. W. SADLER, R.N., Author of "Marshall Vavassour," &c. With Four page Illustrations.

Steffan's Angel, and other Stories.

By M. E. TOWNSEND. With Three page Illustrations.

Stepmother's Will (The); or, a Tale of Two Brothers.

By A. EUBULE-EVANS, Author of "Reclaimed." With numerous Illustrations.

Will's Voyages.

By F. FRANKFORT MOORE, Author of "The Fate of the Black Swan." With Four page Illustrations.

LONDON; NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, CHARING CROSS, W.C.; 43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C. BRIGHTON: 135, NORTH STREET.