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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 53154 ***</div>

<div class="bbox">

<p class="center">Works of
Charles G. D. Roberts</p>

<p>
The Prisoner of Mademoiselle<br />
The Watchers of the Trails<br />
The Kindred of the Wild<br />
The Heart of the Ancient Wood<br />
Earth Enigmas<br />
Barbara Ladd<br />
The Forge in the Forrest<br />
A Sister to Evangeline<br />
By the Marshes of Minas<br />
A History of Canada<br />
The Book of the Rose<br />
Poems<br />
New York Nocturnes<br />
The Book of the Native<br />
In Divers Tones (Out of print)<br />
Songs of the Common Days (Out of print)<br />
</p>

<p class="center">Cameron of Lochiel</p>

<p class="center">(<i>Translated from the French of Philippe Aubert
de Gaspé</i>)</p>

<p class="center">
L. C. PAGE &amp; COMPANY<br />
New England Building<br />
Boston, Mass.<br />
</p></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 242px;">
<img class="mtop2" src="images/i_003.jpg" width="242" height="420" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p><i>Cameron of Lochiel.</i></p>

<p class="center">
(<i>See page 68.</i>)<br />
</p></div>
</div>

<div class="bbox1 break-before">
<h1>CAMERON OF LOCHIEL</h1>

<p class="center">BY<br />
PHILIPPE AUBERT DE GASPÉ<br />
<br />
TRANSLATED BY<br />
CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS<br />
<br />
<br />
NEW EDITION<br />
<i>With a frontispiece by</i><br />
H. C. EDWARDS</p>

<p class="center">BOSTON
L. C. PAGE &amp; COMPANY
<i>MDCCCCV</i></p>
</div>

<p class="center break-before"><i>Copyright, 1890</i><br />
<span class="smcap">By D. Appleton and Company</span><br />
&mdash;&mdash;<br />
<i>Copyright, 1905</i><br />
<span class="smcap">By L. C. Page &amp; Company</span><br />
(INCORPORATED)<br /></p>

<p class="center break-before" id="PREFACE_TO_NEW_EDITION">PREFACE TO NEW EDITION</p>

<p>This leisurely and loose-knit romance of de Gaspé's,
which he called "Les Anciens Canadiens," has for hero
one who was not a Canadian, but a Scotch exile sojourning
in Canada. It is on the creation of this character,
consistently developed and convincingly presented, that
the book must mainly base its claim to be called a work
of fiction, rather than a volume of memoirs and folklore.
I have ventured, therefore, at the suggestion of my publishers,
to take a liberty with the author's title, and name
the story after this young Scotch exile, "Cameron of
Lochiel." I am the more willing to take this liberty
because I feel that de Gaspé has not hitherto been
granted the place he is entitled to in the ranks of Canadian
fictionists. Considered purely as a romance, it
seems to me that the sincerity, simplicity, and originality
of this work quite outweigh its sprawling looseness of
structure, and make it one of the unique ornaments of the
composite literature which we are building up in Canada.
If by so changing its title as to emphasize the fictional
character of the work I can the better call attention to the
worth of de Gaspé's achievement, I feel that I am justified,
even in the face of such anticipatory protest as may
seem to be implied in the author's too modest introduction.</p>

<p>When all this has been said, however, the fact remains
that it was not its many merits as a romance that induced
me to translate this work, but the riches of Canadian tradition,
folk-lore, and perished customs embalmed in the
clear amber of its narrative, coupled with my own anxiety
to contribute, in however humble a way, to the increase
of understanding and confidence between the two great
branches of the Canadian people. It is a beautiful and
gracious life, that of old French Canada, as depicted in
de Gaspé's lucent pages,&mdash;a life of high ideals, and
family devotion, and chivalry, and courage. This is an
atmosphere it is wholesome to breathe. These are people
it is excellent to know; and the whole influence of the
story makes for trust and a good understanding.</p>

<p class="right">
C. G. D. R.</p>

<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Fredericton, N. B.</span>, <i>May, 1905</i>.<br />
</p>



<div class="chapter">

<h2 class="nobreak" id="PREFACE">PREFACE.</h2>
</div>

<p class="center">&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>In Canada there is settling into shape a nation of
two races; there is springing into existence, at the same
time, a literature in two languages. In the matter of
strength and stamina there is no overwhelming disparity
between the two races. The two languages are admittedly
those to which belong the supreme literary achievements
of the modern world. In this dual character of
the Canadian people and the Canadian literature there
is afforded a series of problems which the future will be
taxed to solve. To make any intelligent forecast as to
the solution is hardly possible without a fair comprehension
of the two races as they appear at the point of contact.
We, of English speech, turn naturally to French-Canadian
literature for knowledge of the French-Canadian
people. The romance before us, while intended
for those who read to be entertained, and by no means
weighted down with didactic purpose, succeeds in throwing,
by its faithful depictions of life and sentiment
among the early French Canadians, a strong side-light
upon the motives and aspirations of the race.</p>

<p>In spite of the disclaimer with which the author
begins, the romance of Les Anciens Canadiens is a
classic. From the literary point of view it is markedly
the best historical romance so far produced in French
Canada. It gathers up and preserves in lasting form<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">iv</a></span>
the songs and legends, the characteristic customs, the
phases of thought and feeling, the very local and personal
aroma of a rapidly changing civilization. Much
of what de Gaspé has so vividly painted from his boyish
reminiscences had faded out of the life upon which his
alert eyes rested in old age. The origin of the romance,
as given by his biographer, the Abbé Casgrain, is as
follows:</p>

<p>When, in 1861, that patriotic French-Canadian publication
the <i>Soirées Canadiennes</i> was established, its inaugurators
adopted as their motto the words: "Let
us make haste to write down the stories and traditions
of the people, before they are forgotten." M. de Gaspé
was struck with the idea; and seeing that the writers
who were setting themselves the laudable task were all
young men, he took the words as a summons to his old
age, and so the book came to be written.</p>

<p>Patriotism, devotion to the French-Canadian nationality,
a just pride of race, and a loving memory for his
people's romantic and heroic past&mdash;these are the dominant
chords which are struck throughout the story. Of
special significance, therefore, are the words which are
put in the mouth of the old seigneur as he bids his son
a last farewell. The father has been almost ruined by
the conquest. The son has left the French army and
taken the oath of allegiance to the English crown.
"Serve thy new sovereign," says the dying soldier, "as
faithfully as I have served the King of France; and
may God bless thee, my dear son!"</p>

<p>In the present day, when nationalism in Quebec appears
rather given to extravagant dreams, it would be
well for the distant observer to view the French Canadians
through the faithful medium which de Gaspé's
work affords him. Under constitutional forms of government
it is inevitable that a vigorous and homogeneous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">v</a></span>
minority, whose language and institutions are more
or less threatened by the mere preponderance of the
dominant race, should seem at times overvehement in
its self-assertion. A closer knowledge leads us to conclude
that perhaps the extreme of Quebec nationalism is
but the froth on the surface of a not unworthy determination
to keep intact the speech and institutions of
French Canada. However this may be, it is certain that
the point of contact between the two races in Canada is
at the present day as rich a field for the romancer as de
Gaspé found it at the close of the <i>old régime</i>.</p>

<p>According to the Histoire de la littérature Canadienne
of Edmond Lareau, Philippe Aubert de Gaspé
was born in Quebec on the 30th of October, 1786. He
died in 1871. He belonged to a noble French-Canadian
family. At the manor of St. Jean-Port-Joli, of which he
was seigneur, he passed a large part of his life; and
there he laid the chief scenes of his great romance. He
was educated at the seminary of Quebec, and then studied
law in the city, under Sewell, afterward chief-justice.
Only for a few years, however, did he devote himself
to his profession&mdash;one from which so many a poet
and man of letters has broken loose. He accepted the
position of sheriff of Quebec, and afterward came misfortunes
which Lareau passes over with sympathetic
haste. His lavish generosity to his friends and the
financial embarrassments into which he fell, his four
years' confinement in the debtors' prison, his sufferings
of soul and body, all doubtless contributed to the poignant
coloring with which he has painted the misfortunes
of M. d'Egmont, <i>le bon gentilhomme</i>. On his release from
prison he retired to his estate of St. Jean-Port-Joli, but
not to the solitude and benevolent melancholy of D'Egmont.
The romancer was of too sunny a disposition, he
was too genuine and tolerant a lover of his kind, to run<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">vi</a></span>
much risk of becoming a recluse. A keynote to his
nature may be found in the bright <i>Bonsoir la compagnie</i>
with which, in the words of an old French-Canadian
song, he closed his literary labors at the age of seventy-nine,
when the last page of the Mémoires was completed.</p>

<p>The story we have translated, under the title of The
Canadians of Old, was published in 1862. It is accompanied
in the original by a mass of curious information,
in the shape of notes and <i>addenda</i>, such as would hardly
interest the general reader. They will more than repay,
however, the attention of any one who wishes to study
the French-Canadian people as they were in their early
days. The story itself has the air of being the product
of a happy leisure. The style is quaint and unhurried,
with no fear of the printer's devil before its eyes. The
stream of the narrative, while swift enough and direct
enough at need, is taught to digress into fascinating
cross-channels of highly colored local tradition, or to
linger felicitously in eddies of feast and song.</p>

<p>The work begun in Les Anciens Canadiens De
Gaspé carried to completion in his second and last composition,
the Mémoires, published in 1866. As the former
work is a vivid epitome of life at the <i>seigneuries</i>
and among the <i>habitants</i> of those days, so the latter reproduces
and fixes for us the picturesque effects of life
in the city of Quebec itself in the generation or two
succeeding the conquest&mdash;a period during which the
French-Canadian <i>noblesse</i> yet maintained, about the person
of the English governor, something of the remembered
splendor of the old vice-regal court.</p>

<p class="right">
C. G. D. R.</p>
<p>
<i>Windsor, Nova Scotia, 1890.</i><br />
</p>

<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>


<table summary="table of contents">
  <tr>
    <td>
      CHAPTER
    </td>
    <td>
      &nbsp;
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      PAGE
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      &nbsp;
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">Foreword</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_ix">ix</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      I.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">D'Haberville and Cameron of Lochiel</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_19">19</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      II.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">A Night with the Sorcerers</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
       <a href="#Page_31">31</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      III.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">La Corriveau</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_45">45</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      IV.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">The Breaking up of the Ice</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_56">56</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      V.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">A Supper at the House of a French-Canadian Seigneur</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_76">76</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      VI.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">D'Haberville Manor House</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_99">99</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      VII.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">The May-Feast</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_115">115</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      VIII.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">The Feast of St. Jean-Baptiste</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_124">124</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      IX.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">The Good Gentleman</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_137">137</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      X.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">Madame D'Haberville's Story</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_154">154</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      XI.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">The Burning of the South Shore</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_167">167</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      XII.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">A Night Among the Savages</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_180">180</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      XIII.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">The Plains of Abraham</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_198">198</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      XIV.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">The Shipwreck of the Auguste</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_213">213</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      XV.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">Lochiel and Blanche</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_228">228</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      XVI.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">The Family Hearth</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_254">254</a>
    </td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td>
      XVII.
    </td>
    <td>
      <span class="smcap">Conclusion</span>
    </td>
    <td class="right">
      <a href="#Page_269">269</a>
    </td>
</tr>
</table>


<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">ix</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="FOREWORD">FOREWORD.</h2>
</div>

<p>As my story lays no claim to classicism, either in
style or structure, this foreword may as well be made
to play the part of a preface. My acquaintances will,
doubtless, open their eyes on seeing me thus enter,
at the age of seventy-six, on the perilous paths of authorship.
Possibly I owe them an explanation. Although
tired of reading all these years with so little profit either
to myself or others, I yet dreaded to pass the Rubicon.
A matter small enough in itself in the end decided
me.</p>

<p>One of my friends, a man of parts, whom I met last
year in St Louis Street, in our good city of Quebec,
grasped me warmly by the hand and exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Awfully glad to see you! Do you know, my dear
fellow, I have talked this morning with no fewer than
eleven people, not one of them with half an idea in his
noddle!" And he wrung my arm almost out of joint.</p>

<p>"Really," said I, "you are very complimentary; for I
perceive by the warmth of your greeting that I am the
exception, the man you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, indeed," he cried, without letting me finish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">x</a></span>
my sentence, "those are the only sensible words I have
heard this morning." And he crossed the street to
speak to some one, probably his addle-pate number
twelve, who was seeking to attract his attention.</p>

<p>"The devil!" thought I to myself, "if what I just
said is in any way brilliant, it would seem easy enough to
shine. Though I have never yet been suspected of it, I
must be rather a clever fellow."</p>

<p>Much elated with this discovery, and congratulating
myself that I had more brains than the unhappy eleven
of whom my friend had spoken, I hurry to my library,
I furnish myself, perhaps all too appropriately, with a
ream of the paper called "foolscap," and I set myself
to work.</p>

<p>I write for my own amusement, at the risk of wearying
the reader who may have the patience to go through
this volume. But, as Nature has made me compassionate,
I will give this dear reader a little good advice. He had
better throw away the unlucky book without taking the
trouble to criticise it, which would be making it much
too important, and would be, moreover, but wasted labor
for the serious critic; for, unlike that old Archbishop
of Granada, so touchy on the subject of his sermons, of
whom Gil Blas has told us, I am, for my part, blessed
with an easy humor, and, instead of retorting to my
critic, "I wish you good luck and very much better
taste," I will frankly admit that my book has a thousand
faults, of most of which I have a lively consciousness.</p>

<p>As for the unfriendly critic, his work will be all in
vain, debarred as he will be from the privilege of
dragging me into a controversy. Let me say beforehand
that I grieve to deprive him of his gentle diversion, and
to clip his claws so soon. I am old and indolently content,
like Figaro of merry memory. Moreover, I have
not enough self-conceit to engage in any defense of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">xi</a></span>
my literary productions. To record some incidents of
a well-loved past, to chronicle some memories of a youth
long flown&mdash;this is my whole ambition.</p>

<p>Many of the anecdotes, doubtless, will appear insignificant
and childish to some readers. Let these lay the
blame upon certain of our best men-of-letters, who besought
me to leave out nothing which could illustrate
the manners and customs of the early Canadians. "That
which will appear insignificant and childish to the eyes
of strangers," they urged, "in the records of a septuagenarian,
born but twenty-eight years after the conquest
of New France, will yet not fail to interest true Canadians."</p>

<p>This production of mine shall be neither very dull
nor surpassingly brilliant. An author should assuredly
have too much self-respect to make his appeal exclusively
to the commonplace; and if I should make the
work too fine, it would be appreciated by none but the
<i>beaux esprits</i>. Under a constitutional government, a
candidate must concern himself rather with the number
than the quality of his votes.</p>

<p>This work will be Canadian through and through.
It is hard for an old fellow of seventy to change his
ancient coat for garb of modern pattern.</p>

<p>I must have also plenty of elbow-room. As for rule
and precept&mdash;which, by the way, I am well enough acquainted
with&mdash;I can not submit myself to them in a
work like this. Let the purists, the past masters in the
art of literature, shocked at my mistakes, dub my book
romance, memoir, annals, miscellany, hotch-potch. It
is all the same to me.</p>

<p>Having accomplished my preface, let me make a
serious beginning with the following pretty bit of verse,
hitherto unpublished, and doubtless now much surprised
to find itself in such unworthy company:</p>


<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">xii</a></span></p>




<p class="center" id="QUEBEC_1757">QUEBEC, 1757.</p>



<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">An eagle city on her heights austere,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Taker of tribute from the chainless flood,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She watches wave above her in the clear<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The whiteness of her banner purged with blood.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Near her grim citadel the blinding sheen<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of her cathedral spire triumphant soars,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rocked by the Angelus, whose peal serene<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Beats over Beaupré and the Lévis shores.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Tossed in his light craft on the dancing wave,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A stranger where he once victorious trod,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The passing Iroquois, fierce-eyed and grave,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Frowns on the flag of France, the cross of God.<br /></span>
</div></div></div>


<p>Let him who knows this Quebec of ours betake himself,
in body or in spirit, to the market of the Upper
Town, and consider the changes which the region has
undergone since the year of grace 1757, whereat my
story opens. There was then the same cathedral, minus
its modern tower, which seems to implore the charitable
either to raise it to its proper height or to decapitate its
lofty and scornful sister.</p>

<p>The Jesuits' College, at a later date transformed into
a barrack, looked much the same as it does to-day;
but what has become of the church which stood of old
in the place of the present halls? Where is the grove of
venerable trees behind the building, which adorned the
grounds, now so bare, of this edifice sacred to the education
of Canadian youth? Time and the axe, alas!
have worked their will. In place of the merry sports,
the mirthful sallies of the students, the sober steps of
the professors, the high philosophic discourse, we hear
now the clatter of arms, the coarse jest of the guard.</p>

<p>Instead of the market of the present day, some low-built
butchers' stalls, perhaps seven or eight in number,
occupied a little plot between the cathedral and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">xiii</a></span>
college. Between these stalls and the college prattled
a brook, which, after descending St. Louis Street and
dividing Fabrique, traversed Couillard and the hospital
garden, on its way to the river St. Charles. Our fathers
were bucolic in their tastes!</p>

<p>It is the end of April. The brook is overflowing;
children are amusing themselves by detaching from its
edges cakes of ice, which, shrinking as they go, overleap
all barriers, and lose themselves at last in the
mighty tide of the St. Lawrence. A poet, who finds
"sermons in stones, books in the running brooks,"
dreaming over the scene, and marking the descent of
the ice-cakes, their pausings, their rebuffs, might have
compared them to those ambitious men who, after a
restless life, come with little wealth or fame to the end
of their career, and are swallowed up in eternity.</p>

<p>The houses neighboring the market-place are, for
the most part, of but one story, unlike our modern
structures, which tower aloft as if dreading another
deluge.</p>

<p>It is noon. The Angelus rings out from the cathedral
belfry. All the city chimes proclaim the greeting
of the angel to the Virgin, who is the Canadian's patron
saint. The loitering <i>habitants</i>, whose calashes surround
the stalls, take off their caps and devoutly murmur
the Angelus. All worshiping alike, there is none
to deride the pious custom.</p>

<p>Some of our nineteenth-century Christians seem
ashamed to perform before others an act of worship;
which is proof, to say the least, of a shrinking or cowardly
spirit. The followers of Mohammed, who have the
courage of their convictions wherever they may chance
to be, will seven times daily make their prayers to Allah
under the eyes of the more timid Christians.</p>

<p>The students of the Jesuits' College, noisy enough<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv">xiv</a></span>
on ordinary occasions, move to-day in a serious silence
from the church wherein they have been praying. What
causes this unusual seriousness? They are on the eve
of separation from two beloved fellow-students. The
younger of the two, who, being more of their age, was
wont to share more often in their boyish sports, was the
protector of the feeble against the strong, the impartial
arbitrator in all their petty disagreements.</p>

<p>The great door of the college opens, and two young
men in traveling dress join the group of their fellow-students.
Two leathern portmanteaus, five feet long,
adorned with rings, chains, and padlocks which would
seem strong enough for the mooring of a ship, lie at
their feet. The younger of the two, slight and delicate-looking,
is perhaps eighteen years old. His dark
complexion, great black eyes, alert and keen, his abruptness
of gesture, proclaim his French blood. His name
is Jules D'Haberville. His father is one of the seigneurs,
captain of a company in the colonial marine.</p>

<p>His companion, who is older by two or three years,
is much taller and more robust of frame. His fine blue
eyes, his chestnut hair, his blonde and ruddy complexion
with a few scattered freckles on face and hands,
his slightly aggressive chin&mdash;all these reveal a foreign
origin. This is Archibald Cameron of Lochiel, commonly
known as Archie of Lochiel, a young Scotch Highlander
who has been studying at the Jesuits' College in
Quebec. How is it that he, a stranger, finds himself in
this remote French colony? We will let the sequel
show.</p>

<p>The young men are both notably good looking.
They are clad alike with hooded overcoat, scarlet leggings
edged with green ribbon, blue woolen knitted garters,
a broad belt of vivid colors embroidered with glass
beads, deer-hide moccasins tied in Iroquois fashion, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">xv</a></span>
insteps embroidered with porcupine-quills, and, finally,
caps of beaver-skin fastened over the ears by means of
a red silk handkerchief knotted under the chin.</p>

<p>The younger betrays a feverish eagerness, and keeps
glancing along Buade Street.</p>

<p>"You are in a hurry to leave us, Jules," said one of
his friends, reproachfully.</p>

<p>"No," replied D'Haberville, "oh, no, indeed, my
dear De Laronde, I assure you; but, since this parting
must take place, I wish it over. It unnerves me; and
it is natural that I should be in a hurry to get back
home again."</p>

<p>"That is right," said De Laronde; "and, moreover,
since you are a Canadian, we hope to see you again before
very long."</p>

<p>"But with you the case is different, my dear Archie,"
said another. "I fear this parting will be forever, if you
return to your own country."</p>

<p>"Promise us that you will come back," cried all the
students.</p>

<p>During this conversation Jules darts off like an arrow
to meet two men, each with an oar on his right shoulder,
who are hastening along by the cathedral. One of them
wears the costume of the <i>habitants</i>&mdash;capote of black
homespun, gray woolen cap, gray leggings and garters,
belt of many colors, and heavy cowhide larrigans tied
in the manner of the Iroquois. The dress of the other
is more like that of our young travelers, although much
less costly. The first, tall and rough-mannered, is a
ferryman of Point Lévis. The second, shorter, but of
athletic build, is a follower of Captain D'Haberville,
Jules's father. In times of war, a soldier; in peace, he
occupies the place of a favored servant. He is the
captain's foster-brother and of the same age. He is the
right hand of the family. He has rocked Jules in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">xvi</a></span>
arms, singing him the gay catches of our up-river boatmen.</p>

<p>"Dear José, how are you? How have you left them
all at home?" cried Jules, flinging his arms about him.</p>

<p>"All well enough, thank God," replied Jose; "they
send you all kinds o' love, and are in a great way to see
you. But how you have grown in the last few months!
Lord! Master Jules, but it is good to set eyes on you
again."</p>

<p>In spite of the familiar affection lavished upon José
by the whole D'Haberville family, he never forgot to be
scrupulously respectful.</p>

<p>Jules overwhelms him with eager inquiries. He asks
about the servants, about the neighbors, and about the
old dog whom, when in his thirty-sixth lesson, he had
christened <i>Niger</i> to display his proficiency in Latin.
He has forgiven even the greedy cat who, the year before,
had gobbled up a young pet nightingale which he
had intended to take to college with him. In the first
heat of his wrath, it is true, he had hunted the assassin
with a club, under tables, chairs, and beds, and finally
on to the roof itself, which the guilty animal had sought
as an impregnable refuge. Now, however, he has forgiven
the creature's misdeeds and makes tender inquiry
after its health.</p>

<p>"Hello there!" grumbles the ferryman, who takes
very little interest in the above scenes, "when you have
done slobbering and chattering about the cat and dog,
perhaps you'll make a move. The tide won't wait for
nobody."</p>

<p>In spite of the impatience and ill-humor of the ferryman,
it took long to say farewell. Their instructors embraced
them affectionately.</p>

<p>"You are to be soldiers, both of you", said the principal.
"In daily peril of your life upon the battle-field,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvii" id="Page_xvii">xvii</a></span>
you must keep God ever before you. It may be the
will of Heaven that you fall. Be ready, therefore, at all
times, that you may go before the judgment-seat with a
clear conscience. Take this for your battle-cry&mdash;'God,
the King, and Fatherland!'"</p>

<p>"Farewell!" exclaimed Archie&mdash;"you who have
opened your hearts to the stranger. Farewell, kind
friends, who have striven to make the poor exile forget
that he belonged to an alien race. Farewell, perhaps
forever."</p>

<p>"This parting would be hard indeed for me," said
Jules, deeply moved, "had I not the hope that my
regiment will soon be ordered to Canada." Then, turning
to his instructors, he said:</p>

<p>"I have tried your patience sorely, gentlemen, but
you know that my heart has always been better than my
head; I beg that you will forgive the one for the sake
of the other.&mdash;As for you, my fellow-students," he continued,
with a lightness that was somewhat forced, "you
must admit that, if I have tormented you sadly with my
nonsense during the last ten years, I have at least succeeded
in sometimes making you laugh."</p>

<p>Seizing Archie by the arm, he hurried him off in order
to conceal his emotion.</p>

<p>We may leave our travelers now to cross the St.
Lawrence, and rejoin them a little later at Point Lévis.</p>

<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">The Author.</span><br />
</p>


<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">19</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">

<p class="center" id="CAMERON_OF_LOCHIEL">CAMERON OF LOCHIEL</p>

<p class="center">&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">D'HABERVILLE AND CAMERON OF LOCHIEL.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poetry">Give me, oh! give me back the days<br />
When I&mdash;I too&mdash;was young,<br />
And felt, as they now feel, each coming hour,<br />
New consciousness of power....<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="poetry">The fields, the grove, the air was haunted,<br />
And all that age has disenchanted....<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="poetry">Give me, oh! give youth's passions unconfined,<br />
The rush of joy that felt almost like pain.<br /></div></div>

<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Goethe.</span></p>


<p>Archibald Cameron of Lochiel, son of a Highland
chief who had wedded a daughter of France, was but
four years old when he lost his mother. Brought up by
his father, who was, in the language of the Scriptures, a
valiant hunter in the sight of God, ever since ten years
old he had followed him in the chase of the roebuck and
other wild beasts, scaling the highest mountains, swimming
the icy torrents, making his couch on the wet sod
with no covering but his plaid, no roof but the vault of
heaven. Under such a Spartan training the boy came to
find his chief delight in this wild and wandering life.</p>

<p>When Archie was but twelve years old, in the year
1745, his father joined the standard of that unhappy
young prince who, after the old romantic fashion, threw
himself into the arms of his Scottish countrymen, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">20</a></span>
called upon them to win him back a crown which the
bloody field of Culloden forced him to renounce forever.</p>

<p>In the early days of this disastrous struggle, courage
was triumphant over numbers and discipline, and their
mountains re-echoed to their outmost isles the songs of
victory. The enthusiasm was at its height. The victory
seemed already won. But short-lived was their triumph.
After achievements of most magnificent heroism they
were forced to bow their necks to defeat. Lochiel shared
the fate of the many brave whose blood reddened the
heather on Culloden.</p>

<p>An uncle of Archie's, who had also followed the
standard and fortunes of the unhappy prince, had the
good fortune, after the disaster of Culloden, to save his
head from the scaffold. Through a thousand perils,
over a thousand obstacles, he made good his flight to
France with his orphan nephew. The old gentleman,
ruined in fortune and under sentence of banishment,
was having a hard struggle to support himself and his
charge, when a Jesuit, an uncle of the boy on his
mother's side, undertook a share of the burden. Archie
was sent to the Jesuits' College in Quebec. Having completed
a thorough course in mathematics, he is leaving
college when the reader makes his acquaintance.</p>

<p>Archibald Cameron of Lochiel, whom the harsh hand
of misfortune had brought to an early maturity, knew
not at first what to make of a boy noisy, troublesome
and mocking, who seemed the despair alike of masters
and students. To be sure, the boy had not all the fun
on his own side. Out of twenty canings and impositions
bestowed upon his class, Jules D'Haberville was
sure to pocket at least nineteen for his share.</p>

<p>It must be acknowledged, also, that the older pupils,
driven to the end of their patience, bestowed upon him
sometimes more knocks than nuts; but you would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">21</a></span>
thought the youngster regarded all this as an encouragement,
so ready was he to resume his tricks. We may
add that Jules, without being vindictive, never wholly
overlooked an injury. In one way or another he always
made matters even. His satire, his home thrusts, which
could bring a flush to the face of even the most self-possessed,
served his purpose very effectually with the
masters or with those larger students whom he could
not otherwise reach.</p>

<p>He had adopted it as his guiding principle, that he
would never acknowledge himself beaten; and it was
necessary, therefore, for his opponents, when weary of
war, to make him proposals of peace.</p>

<p>The reader will doubtless conclude that the boy was
cordially disliked; on the contrary, every one was fond
of him; he was the pet of the college. The truth is,
Jules had such a heart as pulses all too rarely in the
breast of man. To say that he was generous to a fault,
that he was ever ready to defend the absent, to sacrifice
himself in order to conceal the faults of others, would
not give an adequate description of his character. The
following incident will reveal him more effectively: When
he was about twelve years old, a senior student got out
of patience and kicked him; with no intention, however,
of hurting him much. It was contrary to Jules's code
of honor to carry complaints to the masters. He contented
himself with replying to his assailant: "You are
too thick-headed, you big brute, for me to waste any
sarcasm on you. You would not understand it. One
must pierce your hide in some other way; but be patient,
you will lose nothing by waiting!"</p>

<p>After rejecting certain more or less ingenious schemes
of vengeance, Jules resolved to catch his enemy asleep
and shave his eyebrows&mdash;a punishment which would be
easy to inflict, as Dubuc, the youth who had kicked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">22</a></span>
him, was a mighty heavy sleeper. This plan had the
further advantage of touching him on a most sensitive
point, for he was a handsome fellow and a good deal of
a dandy.</p>

<p>Jules had just decided on this revenge, when he heard
Dubuc say to one of his friends, who had rallied him on
looking gloomy:</p>

<p>"Indeed, I have good reason to be, for I expect my
father to-morrow. I have got into debt with the shop-keepers,
hoping that my mother would come to Quebec
ahead of him, and would relieve me without his knowing
anything about it. Father is close-fisted and violent.
He will probably strike me in the first heat of his anger;
and I don't know where to hide my head. I have a
mind to run away until the storm is over."</p>

<p>"Oh," said Jules, "why don't you let me help you
out of the scrape?"</p>

<p>"The devil you say!" exclaimed Dubuc, shaking
his head.</p>

<p>"Why," said Jules, "do you think that on account
of a kick, more or less, I would leave a fellow-student
in a scrape and exposed to the violence of his amiable
papa? To be sure, you almost broke my back, but that
is another affair, which we will settle later. How much
cash do you want?"</p>

<p>"My dear fellow," answered Dubuc, "that would be
abusing your kindness. I need a large sum, and I know
you are not in funds just now; for you emptied your
purse to help that poor woman whose husband was
killed the other day."</p>

<p>"A pretty story," said Jules. "As if one could not
always find money to save a friend from the wrath of a
father who is going to break his neck! How much do
you want?"</p>

<p>"Fifty francs!"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">23</a></span></p>

<p>"You shall have them this evening," said the boy.</p>

<p>Jules, an only son, belonging to a rich family, indulged
by everybody, had his pockets always full of
money. Father and mother, uncles and aunts, godfathers
and godmothers, they all kept loudly proclaiming
that boys should not have too much money to spend.
At the same time they outdid each other in surreptitiously
supplying his purse!</p>

<p>Dubuc, however, had spoken truly; the boy's purse
was empty for the moment. Fifty francs was, moreover,
quite a sum in those days. The King of France was
paying his red allies only fifty francs for an English
scalp. His Britannic Majesty, richer or more generous,
was paying a hundred for the scalp of a Frenchman!</p>

<p>Jules did not care to apply to his uncles and his
aunts, the only relations he had in the city. His first
thought was to borrow fifty francs by pawning his gold
watch, which was worth at least twenty-five louis. Revolving
the matter, however, he bethought himself of a
certain old woman, a servant of the house, whom his
father had dowered at her marriage, and to whom he had
afterward advanced enough money to set her up in business.
The business had prospered in her hands. She
was a widow, rich and childless.</p>

<p>There were difficulties to surmount, however. The
old dame was rather avaricious and crusty; and on the
occasion of Jules's last visit they had not parted on the
best terms possible. She had even chased him into the
street with a broomstick. The boy had done nothing
more, however, than play her a little trick. He had given
her pet spaniel a dose of snuff, and when the old lady
ran to the help of her dog, who was conducting himself
like a lunatic, he had emptied the rest of the snuff-box
into a dandelion salad which she was carefully picking
over for her supper.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">24</a></span></p>

<p>"Hold on, mother," he cried, as he ran away, "there
is a good seasoning for you."</p>

<p>Jules saw that it was very necessary to make his
peace with the good dame, and hence these preliminaries.
He threw his arms about her neck on entering, in spite
of the old woman's attempt to shield herself from these
too ardent demonstrations, after the way he had affronted
her.</p>

<p>"See, my dear Madeleine," he cried, "I am come to
pardon thine offenses as thou must pardon all who have
offended against thee. Everybody says thou art stingy
and revengeful, but that is no business of mine. Thou
wilt get quit of it by roasting a little while in another
world. I wash my hands of it entirely."</p>

<p>Madeleine hardly knew whether to laugh or be angry
at this fantastic preamble; but, as she was fond of the
boy, for all his tricks, she took the wiser course and
smiled good-naturedly.</p>

<p>"Now that we are in a better humor," continued
Jules, "let us proceed to business. I have been a little
foolish and have got into debt, and I dread to trouble
my good father about it. In fact, I want fifty francs to
settle the unfortunate business. Can you lend me that
much?"</p>

<p>"Indeed, now, Master D'Haberville," answered the
old dame, "if that were all I had in the world, I would
give it all to save your father any trouble. I owe so
much to your father."</p>

<p>"Tut!" said Jules, "if you talk of those ha'pennies,
there's an end of business. But listen, my good Madeleine,
since I might break my neck when I least expect
it, or still more probably when climbing on the roof or
among the city bells, I must give you a bit of writing for
security. I hope, however, to pay you back in a month
at latest."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">25</a></span></p>

<p>At this Madeleine was seriously offended. She refused
the note, and counted him out the money. Jules
almost choked her with his embrace, sprang through the
window into the street and hurried back to the college.</p>

<p>At recess time that evening Dubuc was freed from
all anxiety on the score of his amiable papa.</p>

<p>"But remember," said D'Haberville, "I still owe
you for that kick."</p>

<p>"Hold on, dear boy," exclaimed Dubuc, with feeling.
"I wish you would settle that right now. Break
my head or my back with the poker, only let us settle
it. To think that, after all you have done for me, you
are still bearing me a grudge, would be nothing less than
torture."</p>

<p>"A fine idea that," exclaimed the boy, "to think
that I bear any one a grudge because I am in his debt
in regard to a little exchange of compliments! So that
is how you take it, eh? Shake, then, and let us think
no more about it. You may brag of being the only one
to scratch me without my having drawn his blood in return."</p>

<p>With these words he sprang upon the young man's
shoulders like a monkey, pulled out a few hairs to satisfy
his conscience, and scampered off to join the merry
group which was waiting for him.</p>

<p>Archibald of Lochiel, matured by bitter experiences,
and on that account more self-contained and more reserved
than other boys of his age, on his first coming to
college hardly knew whether to smile or be angry at the
frolics of the little imp who seemed to have taken him
for his special butt, and who hardly left him any peace.
He could not be expected to divine that this was Jules's
manner of showing his affection for those he loved the
most. One day, driven to the end of his forbearance,
Archie said to him:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">26</a></span></p>

<p>"Do you know, you would try the patience of a
saint! Verily I don't know what to do with you."</p>

<p>"But you have a way out of your difficulties," answered
Jules. "My skin itches; give me a good hiding,
and I'll leave you in peace. That will be easy enough
for you, you young Hercules."</p>

<p>Lochiel, indeed, accustomed from his infancy to the
trying sports of the young Highlanders, was at fourteen
marvelously strong for his years.</p>

<p>"Do you think," exclaimed Archie, "that I am such
a coward as to strike a boy younger and weaker than
myself?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no," said Jules; "I see we agree on that score&mdash;never
a knock for a little fellow. What suits me is a
good tussle with a fellow of my own age, or even a little
older; then shake hands and think no more about it.
By the way," continued Jules, "you know that comical
dog De Chavigny? He is older than I am, but so weak
and miserable that I have never had the heart to punch
him, although he has played me such a trick as even
St. Francis himself would hardly pardon. Just think of
him running to me all out of breath and exclaiming:
'I've just snatched an egg from that greedy Letourneau,
who had stolen it out of the refectory. Here, hide it;
he's after me!'</p>

<p>"'Where do you want me to hide it?' said I.</p>

<p>"'Oh, in your hat,' he answered; 'he'll never think
of looking for it there.'</p>

<p>"As for me, I was fool enough to do it. I ought to
have mistrusted him.</p>

<p>"In a moment Letourneau came up and jammed
my cap down over my eyes. The accursed egg nearly
blinded me, and I swear did not smell like a rose-garden!
It was an addled egg found by Chavigny
in a nest which the hen had probably abandoned a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">27</a></span>
month before. I got out of that mess with the loss of
a cap, a vest, and other garments. Well, after the first
of my fury was over, I could not help laughing; and if
I bear him any grudge at all, it is for having got ahead
of me with so neat a trick. I should love to get it off
on Derome, who keeps his hair so charmingly powdered.
As for Letourneau, since he was too stupid to have invented
the trick myself, I contented myself with saying
to him, 'Blessed are they of little wit'; and he
professed himself proud of the compliment, being glad
enough, after all, to get off so cheaply.</p>

<p>"And now, my dear Archie," continued Jules, "let
us come to terms. I am a kindly potentate, and my
conditions shall be most easy. To please you, I undertake,
on the word of a gentleman, to diminish by one
third those tricks of mine which you lack the good
taste to appreciate. Come, now, you ought to be satisfied
with that if you are not utterly unreasonable, for
you see, my dear boy, I love you. I would not have
made peace with any one else on such advantageous
terms."</p>

<p>Lochiel could not help laughing as he shook the
irrepressible lad. It was from this conversation that
the friendship between the two boys took its beginning&mdash;on
Archie's part with a truly Scottish restraint, on the
side of Jules with the passionate warmth of which the
French heart is capable.</p>

<p>A few weeks later, about a month before the vacation,
which began then on the 15th of August, Jules
seized his friend's arm and whispered:</p>

<p>"Come into my room. I have just had a letter from
father which concerns you."</p>

<p>"Concerns me!" exclaimed the other in astonishment.</p>

<p>"Why are you surprised?" retorted D'Haberville.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">28</a></span>
"Do you think you are not of sufficient importance for
any one to concern himself about you? Why, all New
France is talking about the handsome Scotchman. The
mammas, fearing your influence on the <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'imflammable'">inflammable</ins>
hearts of their daughters, talk seriously of petitioning our
principal never to let you appear in public except with
a veil on, like the women of the East."</p>

<p>"Come, stop your fooling, and let me go on with my
reading."</p>

<p>"But I am very much in earnest," said Jules. And,
dragging his friend along with him, he read him part of
a letter from his father, which ran as follows:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"What you tell me about your young friend, Master de Lochiel,
interests me very much. I grant your request with the greatest
pleasure. Give him my compliments, and beg him to come and spend
his next vacation with us, and all his vacations so long as he is attending
college. If he does not consider this invitation sufficiently
formal, I will write to him myself. His father sleeps upon a glorious
field. Soldiers are brothers everywhere; so should their sons
be likewise. Let him come to our own hearth-stone, and our hearts
shall open to him as to one of our own blood."</p></blockquote>

<p>Archie was so affected by the warmth of this invitation
that for some moments he could not answer.</p>

<p>"Come, my haughty Scotlander, will you do us the
honor?" said his friend. "Or must my father send, on
a special embassy, his chief butler, José Dubé, with
the bagpipes slung on his back in the form of a St.
Andrew's cross&mdash;as is the custom, I believe, among your
Highland chiefs&mdash;to present you his invitation with all
due formality?"</p>

<p>"As, fortunately, I am no longer in my Highlands,"
said Archie, laughing, "we can dispense with these formalities.
I shall write at once to Captain D'Haberville,
and thank him with my whole heart for his noble generosity
to the exiled orphan."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">29</a></span></p>

<p>"Then, let us speak reasonably for once," said Jules,
"if only for the novelty of the thing. You think me very
light, silly, and scatter-brained. I acknowledge that
there is a little of all that in me, which does not prevent
me from being in earnest more often than you think. I
have long been seeking a friend, a true and high-hearted
friend. I have watched you very closely, and I find you
all I could wish. Lochiel, will you be my friend?"</p>

<p>"Without a moment's question, my dear boy," answered
Archie, "for I have always felt strongly attracted
toward you."</p>

<p>"Well, then," cried Jules, grasping his hand warmly,
"it is for life and death with us Lochiel!"</p>

<p>Thus, between a boy of twelve and a boy of fourteen,
was ratified a friendship which in the sequel will be exposed
to the crudest tests.</p>

<p>"Here's a letter from mother," said Jules, "in which
there is a word for you":</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"I hope your friend, Master de Lochiel, will do us the pleasure
of accepting your father's invitation. We are all eager to meet him.
His room is ready, alongside of your own. In the box which José
will hand you there is a parcel for him which he would grieve me
greatly by refusing. In sending it I am thinking of the mother he
has lost."</p></blockquote>

<p>The box contained equal shares for the two boys of
cakes, sweetmeats, jams, and other dainties.</p>

<p>The friendship between the two boys grew stronger
day by day. They became inseparable. Their college-mates
dubbed them variously Damon and Pythias, Orestes
and Pylades, Nisus and Euryalus. At last they
called them the brothers.</p>

<p>All the time Lochiel was at college he spent his
vacations with the D'Habervilles, who made no difference
between the two boys unless to lavish the more
marked attentions upon the young Scotchman who had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">30</a></span>
become as it were a son of the house. It was most
natural, then, that Archie, before sailing for Europe,
should accompany Jules on his farewell visit to his
father's house.</p>

<p>The friendship between the two young men, as we
have already said, is destined to be put to the bitterest
trial, when that code of honor which has been substituted
by civilization for the truest sentiments of the
human heart, shall come to teach them the obligations
of men who are fighting under hostile flags. But why
anticipate the dark future? Have they not enjoyed
during almost ten years of college life the passing griefs,
the little jealousies, the eager pleasures, the differences
and ardent reconciliations which characterize a boyish
friendship?</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">31</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">A NIGHT WITH THE SORCERERS.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!<br />
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned,<br />
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell.</div></div>

<p class="right"><i>Hamlet.</i></p>

<blockquote>
<p class="center">Ecoute comme les bois crient. Les hiboux fuient épouvantés....
Entends-tu ces voix dans les hauteurs, dans le lointain, ou près de nous?...
Eh! oui! la montagne retentit, dans toute sa longueur, d'un furieux
chant magique.</p>

<p class="right"><i>Faust.</i></p></blockquote>

<p class="center">
Lest bogles catch him unawares....<br />
<br />
Where ghaits and howlets nightly cry....<br />
<br />
When out the hellish legion sallied.<br />
</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Burns.</span>
</p>


<p>As soon as our young travelers, crossing the St.
Lawrence opposite Quebec, have reached Point Lévis,
José makes haste to harness a splendid Norman horse
into one of those low sledges which furnish the only
means of transport at this season, when the roads are
only covered here and there with snow or ice, and when
overflowing streams intercept the way at intervals. When
they come to one of these obstacles José unharnesses the
horse, all three mount, and the brook is speedily forded.
It is true that Jules, who clasps José around the waist,
tries every now and then to throw him off, at the risk of
partaking with him the luxury of a bath at a little above
zero. He might as well have tried to throw Cape Tourmente
into the St. Lawrence. José, who, in spite of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">32</a></span>
comparatively small stature, is as strong as an elephant,
laughs in his sleeve and pretends not to notice it. The
brook forded, José goes back for the sledge, reharnesses
the horse, climbs into the sledge with the baggage in
front of him lest he should get it wet, and speedily overtakes
his fellow-travelers, who have not halted a moment
in their march.</p>

<p>Thanks to Jules, the conversation never flags during
the journey. Archie does nothing but laugh over the
witticisms that Jules perpetrates at his expense. He
has long given up attempting any retort.</p>

<p>"We must hurry," exclaimed D'Haberville; "it is
thirty-six miles from here to St. Thomas. My uncle
De Beaumont takes supper at seven. If we get there
too late, we shall probably make a poor meal. The good
things will be all gobbled up. You know the proverb,
<i>tarde venientibus ossa</i>."</p>

<p>"Scotch hospitality is proverbial," exclaimed Archie.
"With us the welcome is the same day or night. That
is the cook's business."</p>

<p>"Verily," said Jules, "I believe it as if I saw it with
my own eyes; were it otherwise it would show a plentiful
lack of skill or good-will on the part of your peticoated
cooks. It is delightfully primitive, that Scotch
cookery of yours. With a few handfuls of oatmeal
sodden in cold water&mdash;since you have neither wood
nor coal in your country&mdash;you can make an excellent
soup at little cost and with no great expenditure of
culinary science, and feast your guests as well in the
night as in the daytime. It is quite true that, when
some distinguished personage seeks your hospitality&mdash;which
often happens, since Scotland is loaded down
with enough coats-of-arms to crush a camel&mdash;it is true
I say, that you set before him, in addition to your oatmeal
soup, the head, feet, or nice, juicy tail of a sheep,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">33</a></span>
with salt for sauce; the other parts of the animal never
seem to grow in Scotland."</p>

<p>Lochiel contented himself with glancing at Jules
over his shoulder and repeating:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"'Quis talia fando Myrmidonum,
Dolopumve'&mdash;"</p></blockquote>

<p>"What's that?" exclaimed Jules, in assumed indignation;
"you call me a Myrmidon, a Dolopian&mdash;me, the
philosopher! And, moreover, my worthy pedant, you
abuse me in Latin&mdash;you who so murder the accent with
your Caledonian tongue that Virgil must squirm in his
grave! You call me a Myrmidon&mdash;me, the geometrician
of my class! You remember that the Professor of
Mathematics predicted that I should be another Vauban&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yes, indeed," interrupted Archie, "in recognition
of your famous perpendicular line, which leaned so
much to the left that all the class trembled lest it should
fall and crush its base; seeing which, our professor
sought to console you by predicting that your services
would be required in case of the reconstruction of the
Tower of Pisa."</p>

<p>Jules struck a tragic attitude and cried:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"'Tu t'en souviens, Cinna! et veux m'assassiner.'</p></blockquote>

<p>"You are going to stab me upon the king's highway,
beside this mighty St. Lawrence, untouched by all the
beauty of nature which surrounds us&mdash;untouched by
yon lovely cascade of Montmorency, which the <i>habitants</i>
call 'The Cow,' a title very much the reverse of poetic,
but which, nevertheless, expresses well enough the exquisite
whiteness of the stream which leaps from its
bosom like the rich and foaming flow from the milch-cow's
udder. You are going to stab me right in sight of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">34</a></span>
the Isle of Orleans, which, as we go on, conceals from
our view the lovely waterfall which I have so poetically
described! Heartless wretch! will nothing make you relent&mdash;not
even the sight of poor José here, who is touched
by all this wisdom and eloquence in one so young, as
Fénelon would have said could he have written my adventures?"</p>

<p>"Do you know," interrupted Archie, "you are at
least as remarkable in poetry as you are in geometry?"</p>

<p>"Who can doubt it?" answered Jules. "No matter,
my perpendicular made you all laugh and myself most
of all. You know, however, that that was only another
trick of that scamp De Chavigny, who had stolen my
exercise and rolled up another in place of it, which I
handed in to the teacher. You all pretended not to
believe me, since you were but too glad to see the
trickster tricked."</p>

<p>José, who ordinarily took little part in the young
men's conversation, and who, moreover, had been unable
to understand what they had just been talking about,
now began to mutter under his breath:</p>

<p>"What a queer kind of a country that, where the
sheep have only heads, feet, and tails, and not even a
handful of a body! But, after all, it is none of my business;
the men who are the masters will fix things to
suit themselves; but I can't help thinking of the poor
horses!"</p>

<p>José, who was a regular jockey, had a most tender
consideration for these noble beasts. Then, turning to
Archie, he touched his cap and said:</p>

<p>"Saving your presence, sir, if the gentry themselves
eat all the oats in your country, which is because they
have nothing better to eat, I suppose, what do the poor
horses do? They require to be well fed if they do much
hard work."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">35</a></span></p>

<p>The young men burst out laughing. José, a little
abashed by their ridicule, exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Excuse me if I have said anything foolish. One
may make mistakes without being drunk, just like Master
Jules there, who was telling you that the <i>habitants</i>
call Montmorency Falls 'The Cow' because their foam
is white as milk. Now, I have a suspicion that it is because
they bellow like a cow in certain winds. At least
that is what the old bodies say when they get chattering."</p>

<p>"Don't be angry, old boy," answered Jules, "you
are probably quite right. We were laughing because
you thought there were horses in Scotland. The animal
is unknown in that country."</p>

<p>"What! no horses, sir? What do the folks do when
they want to travel?"</p>

<p>"When I say no horses," answered D'Haberville,
"you must not understand me too literally. They have
an animal resembling our horses, but not much taller
than my big dog Niger. It lives in the mountains, wild
as our caribous, and not altogether unlike them. When
a Highlander wants to travel, he sounds his bagpipe;
all the villagers gather together and he unfolds to them
his project. Then they scatter through the woods, or
rather through the heather, and after a day or two of
toil and tribulation they succeed, occasionally, in capturing
one of these charming beasts; then, after another
day or two, if the brute is not too obstinate, and if the
Highlander has enough patience, he sets out on his
journey, and sometimes even succeeds in coming to the
end of it."</p>

<p>"Well, I must say," retorted Lochiel, "you are a
pretty one to be making fun of my Highlanders! You
have good right to be proud of this princely turn-out of
your own! It will be hard for posterity to believe that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">36</a></span>
the high and mighty lord of D'Haberville sends for his
son and heir in a sort of dung-cart without wheels!
Doubtless he will send some outriders on ahead of us, in
order that nothing shall be lacking in our triumphal approach
to the manor of St. Jean Port Joli!"</p>

<p>"Well done, Lochiel! you are saved, brother mine,"
cried Jules. "A very neat home thrust. Claws for
claws, as one of your Scottish saints exclaimed
one day, when he was having a scrimmage with the
devil."</p>

<p>José, during this discussion, was scratching his head
disconsolately. Like Caleb Balderstone, in The Bride of
Lammermoor, he was very sensitive on all subjects
touching his master's honor.</p>

<p>"What a wretched fool I am!" he cried in a piteous
voice. "It is all my fault. The seigneur has four carryalls
in his coach-house, of which two are brand new and
varnished up like fiddles, so that I used one for a looking-glass
last Sunday. So, then, when the seigneur said
to me yesterday morning, 'Get ready, José, for you must
go to Quebec to fetch my son and his friend Mr. de
Lochiel; see that you take a proper carriage'&mdash;I, like
a fool, said to myself that when the roads were so bad
the only thing to take was a sled like this! Oh, yes, I'm
in for a good scolding! I shall get off cheap if I have
to do without my brandy for a month! At three
drinks a day," added José, "that will make a loss
of ninety good drinks, without counting extras. But
it's all the same to me; I'll take my punishment like a
man."</p>

<p>The young men were greatly amused at José's ingenious
lying for the honor of his master.</p>

<p>"Now," said Archie, "since you seem to have emptied
your budget of all the absurdities that a hair-brained
French head can contain, try and speak seriously, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">37</a></span>
tell me why the Isle of Orleans is called the Isle of the
Sorcerers."</p>

<p>"For the very simple reason," answered Jules, "that
a great many sorcerers live there."</p>

<p>"There you begin again with your nonsense," said
Lochiel.</p>

<p>"I am in earnest," said Jules. "These Scotch are
unbearably conceited. They can't acknowledge any
excellence in other nations. Do you think, my dear
fellow, that Scotland has the monopoly of witches and
wizards? I would beg you to know that we too have
our sorcerers; and that two hours ago, between Point
Lévis and Beaumont, I might as easily as not have introduced
you to a very respectable sorceress. I would
have you know, moreover, that on the estate of my
illustrious father you shall see a witch of the most remarkable
skill. The difference is, my dear boy, that in
Scotland you burn them, while here we treat them in a
manner fitting their power and social influence. Ask
José if I am not telling the truth?"</p>

<p>José did not fail to confirm all he said. In his eyes
the witches of Beaumont and St. Jean Port Joli were
genuine and mighty sorceresses.</p>

<p>"But to speak seriously," continued Jules, "since
you would make a reasonable man of me, <i>nolens volens</i>,
as my sixth-form master used to say when he gave me a
dose of the strap, I believe the fable takes its rise from
the fact that the <i>habitants</i> on the north and south shores
of the river, seeing the islanders on dark nights go out
fishing with torches, mistake their lights for will-o'-the-wisps.
Then, you know that our country folk regard
the will-o'-the-wisps as witches, or as evil spirits who
endeavor to lure the wandering wretch to his death.
They even profess to hear them laugh when the deluded
traveler falls into the quagmire. The truth is, that there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">38</a></span>
is an inflammable gas continually escaping from our bogs
and swampy places, from which to the hobgoblins and
sorcerers is but a single step."</p>

<p>"Impossible," said Archie; "your logic is at fault,
as the professor so often had to tell you. You see the
inhabitants of the north and south shores themselves go
fishing with torches, whence, according to your reasoning,
the islanders should have called them sorcerers; which
is not the case."</p>

<p>While Jules was shaking his head, with no answer
ready, José took up the word.</p>

<p>"If you would let me speak, gentlemen, I might explain
your difficulty by telling you what happened to
my late father who is now dead."</p>

<p>"Oh, by all means, tell us that; tell us what happened
to your late father who is now dead," cried Jules,
with a marked emphasis on the last four words.</p>

<p>"Yes, my dear José, do us the favor of telling us
about it," added Lochiel.</p>

<p>"I can't half tell the story," answered José, "for,
you see, I have neither the fine accent nor the splendid
voice of my lamented parent. When he used to tell us
what happened to him in his vigil, our bodies would
shake so, as if with ague, as would do you good to see.
But I'll do my best to satisfy you:</p>

<p>"It happened one day that my late father, who is
now dead, had left the city for home somewhat late. He
had even diverted himself a little, so to speak, with his
acquaintances in Point Lévis. Like an honest man, he
loved his drop; and on his journeys he always carried a
flask of brandy in his dogfish-skin satchel. They say
the liquor is the milk for old men."</p>

<p>"<i>Lac dulce</i>," interjected Archie, sententiously.</p>

<p>"Begging your pardon, Mr. Archie," answered José,
with some warmth, "it was neither <i>sweet water</i> (<i>de l'eau</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">39</a></span>
<i>douce</i>) nor <i>lake-water</i> (<i>eau de lac</i>), but very good, unadulterated
brandy which my late father, now dead, was
carrying in his satchel."</p>

<p>"Capital, upon my word!" cried Jules. "It serves
you right for your perpetual Latin quotations!"</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon, José," said Lochiel, very seriously.
"I intended not the shadow of disrespect to
your late father."</p>

<p>"You are excused, sir," said José, entirely mollified.
"It happened that it was quite dark when my father at
last got under way. His friends did their best to keep
him all night, telling him that he would have to pass, all
by himself, the iron cage wherein <i>La Corriveau</i> did penance
for having killed her husband.</p>

<p>"You saw it yourselves, gentlemen, when leaving
Point Lévis at one o'clock. She was quiet then in her
cage, the wicked creature, with her eyeless skull. But
never you trust to her being blind. She is a cunning
one, you had better believe! If she can't see in the
daytime, she knows well enough how to find her way
to torment poor folks at night. Well, as for my late
father, who was as brave as his captain's sword, he told
his friends that he didn't care&mdash;that he didn't owe <i>La
Corriveau</i> a farthing&mdash;with a heap more reasons which I
can not remember now. He put the whip to his horse,
a fine brute that could travel like the wind, and was
gone in a second.</p>

<p>"As he was passing the skeleton, he thought he heard
a noise, a sort of wailing; but, as a heavy southwest
wind was blowing, he made up his mind it was only the
gale whistling through the bones of the corpse. It gave
him a kind of a start, nevertheless, and he took a good pull
at the flask to brace himself up. All things considered,
however, as he said to himself, Christians should be ready
to help each other; perhaps the poor creature was wanting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">40</a></span>
his prayers. He took off his cap and devoutly recited
a <i>de profundis</i> for her benefit, thinking that, if it
didn't do her any good, it could at least do her no harm,
and that he himself would be the better for it. Well,
then he kept on as fast as he could; but, for all that, he
heard a queer sound behind him&mdash;tic-tac, tic-tac, like a
piece of iron striking on the stones. He thought it was
the tire of his wheel, or some piece of the wagon, that
had come unfastened. He got out to see, but found
everything snug. He touched the horse to make up for
lost time, but after a little he heard again that tic-tac,
tic-tac, on the stones. Being brave, he didn't pay much
attention.</p>

<p>"When he got to the high ground of St. Michel,
which we passed a little way back, he grew very drowsy.
'After all,' said my late father, 'a man is not a dog! let
us take a little nap; we'll both be the better for it, my
horse and I.' Well, he unharnessed his horse, tied his
legs so he would not wander too far, and said: 'There,
my pet, there's good grass, and you can hear the brook
yonder. Good-night.'</p>

<p>"As my late father crawled himself into the wagon to
keep out of the dew, it struck him to wonder what time
it was. After studying the 'Three Kings' to the south'ard
and the 'Wagon' to the north'ard, he made up his
mind it must be midnight. 'It is time,' said he, 'for
honest men to be in bed.'</p>

<p>"Suddenly, however, it seemed to him as if Isle d'Orléans
was on fire. He sprang over the ditch, leaned on
the fence, opened his eyes wide, and stared with all his
might. He saw at last that the flames were dancing up
and down the shore, as if all the will-o'-the-wisps, all the
damned souls of Canada, were gathered there to hold the
witches' sabbath. He stared so hard that his eyes which
had grown a little dim grew very clear again, and he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">41</a></span>
saw a curious sight; you would have said they were a
kind of men, a queer breed altogether. They had a
head big as a peck measure, topped off with a pointed
cap a yard long; then they had arms, legs, feet, and
hands armed with long claws, but no body to speak of.
Their crotch, begging your pardon, gentlemen, was split
right up to their ears. They had scarcely anything in
the way of flesh; they were kind of all bone, like skeletons.
Every one of these pretty fellows had his upper
lip split like a rabbit's, and through the split stuck out a
rhinoceros tusk a foot long, like you see, Mr. Archie, in
your book of unnatural history. As for the nose, it was
nothing more nor less, begging your pardon, than a long
pig's snout, which they would rub first on one side and
then on the other of their great tusk, perhaps to sharpen
it. I almost forgot to say that they had a long tail,
twice as long as a cow's, which they used, I suppose, to
keep off the flies.</p>

<p>"The funniest thing of all was that there were but
three eyes to every couple of imps. Those that had but
one eye, in the middle of the forehead, like those Cyclopes
that your uncle, who is a learned man, Mr. Jules,
used to read to us about out of that big book of his, all
Latin, like the priest's prayer-book, which he called his
Virgil&mdash;those that had but one eye held each by the claw
two novices with the proper number of eyes. Out of all
these eyes spurted the flames which lit up Isle d'Orléans
like broad day. The novices seemed very respectful to
their companions, who were, as one might say, half
blind; they bowed down to them, they fawned upon
them, they fluttered their arms and legs, just like good
Christians dancing the minuet.</p>

<p>"The eyes of my late father were fairly starting out of
his head. It was worse and worse when they began to
jump and dance without moving from their places, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">42</a></span>
to chant in a voice as hoarse as that of a choking cow,
this song:</p>


<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Hoary Frisker, Goblin gay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Long-nosed Neighbor, come away!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Come my Grumbler in the mud,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Brother Frog of tainted blood!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Come, and on this juicy Christian<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let us feast it while we may!"<br /></span>
</div></div></div>

<p>"'Ah! the accursed heathens,' exclaimed my late
father, 'an honest man can not be sure of his property
for a moment! Not satisfied with having stolen my
favorite song, which I always keep to wind up with at
weddings and feasts, just see how they've played the
devil with it! One would hardly recognize it. It is
Christians instead of good wine that they are going to
treat themselves to, the scoundrels!'</p>

<p>"Then the imps went on with their hellish song, glaring
at my late father, and curling their long snouts
around their great rhinoceros tusks:</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Come, my tricksy Traveler's Guide,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Devil's Minion true and tried.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Come, my Sucking-Pig, my Simple,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Brother Wart and Brother Pimple;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Here's a fat and juicy Frenchman<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To be pickled, to be fried!"<br /></span>
</div></div></div>


<p>"'All that I can say to you just now, my darlings,'
cried my late father, 'is that if you get no more fat to
eat than what I'm going to bring you on my lean carcass
you'll hardly need to skim your broth.'</p>

<p>"The goblins, however, seemed to be expecting
something, for they kept turning their heads every moment.
My late father looked in the same direction.
What was that he saw on the hill-side? A mighty devil,
built like the rest, but as long as the steeple St. Michel,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">43</a></span>
which we passed awhile back. Instead of the pointed
bonnet, he wore a three-horned hat, topped with a big
thorn bush in place of a feather. He had but one eye,
blackguard that he was, but that was as good as a dozen.
He was doubtless the drum-major of the regiment, for he
held in his hand a saucepan twice as big as our maple-sugar
kettles, which hold twenty gallons, and in the
other hand a bell-clapper, which no doubt the dog of a
heretic had stolen from some church before its consecration.
He pounded on his saucepan, and all the
scoundrels began to laugh, to jump, to flutter, nodding
to my late father as if inviting him to come and amuse
himself with them.</p>

<p>"'You'll wait a long time, my lambs,' thought my late
father to himself, his teeth chattering in his head as if
he had the shaking fever&mdash;'you will wait a long time,
my gentle lambs. I'm not in any hurry to quit the good
Lord's earth to live with the goblins!'</p>

<p>"Suddenly the tall devil began to sing a hellish
round, accompanying himself on the saucepan, which
he beat furiously, and all the goblins darted away like
lightning&mdash;so fast, indeed, that it took them less than a
minute to go all the way around the island. My poor
late father was so stupefied by the hubbub that he could
not remember more than three verses of the song, which
ran like this:</p>

<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
"Here's the spot that suits us well<br />
When it gets too hot in hell&mdash;<br />
Toura-loura;<br />
Here we go all round,<br />
Hands all round,<br />
Here we go all round.<br />
<br />
</div>

<div class="stanza">
"Come along and stir your sticks,<br />
You jolly dogs of heretics&mdash;<br />
Toura-loura;<br />
<br />
</div>

<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">44</a></span>
Here we go all round,<br />
Hands all round,<br />
Here we go all round.<br />
<br />
</div>

<div class="stanza">
"Room for all, there's room for all<br />
That skim or wriggle, bounce or crawl&mdash;<br />
Toura-loura;<br />
Here we go all round,<br />
Hands all round,<br />
Here we go all round."<br />
</div></div>

<p>"My late father was in a cold sweat; he had not
yet, however, come to the worst of it."</p>

<p>Here José paused. "But I am dying for a smoke,
and, with your permission, gentlemen, I'll light my pipe."</p>

<p>"Quite right, my dear José," answered D'Haberville.
"For my own part, I am dying for something else. My
stomach declares that this is dinner-hour at college.
Let's have a bite to eat."</p>

<p>Jules enjoyed the privilege of aristocratic descent&mdash;he
had always a magnificent appetite. This was specially
excusable to-day, seeing that he had dined at
noon, and had had an immense deal of exercise since.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">45</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">LA CORRIVEAU.</span></h2>
</div>

<blockquote>
<p>Sganarelle.&mdash;Seigneur commandeur, mon maitre, Don Juan, vous demande
si vous voulez lui faire l'honneur de venir souper avec lui.</p>

<p>Le même.&mdash;La statue m'a fait signe.</p>

<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Le Festin de Pierre.</span><br />
</p></blockquote>


<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">What? the ghosts are growing ruder,<br />
How they beard me....<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="stanza">To-night&mdash;why this is Goblin Hall,<br />
Spirits and specters all in all.<br />
<br /></div></div></div>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Faustus.</span><br />
</p>


<p>José, after having unbridled the horse and given him
what he called a mouthful of hay, made haste to open a
box which he had ingeniously arranged on the sled to
serve, as needs might be, both for seat and larder. He
brought out a great napkin in which were wrapped up
two roast chickens, a tongue, a ham, a little flask of
brandy, a good big bottle of wine. He was going to
retire when Jules said to him:</p>

<p>"Come along and take a bite with us, José."</p>

<p>"Yes, indeed, come and sit here by me," said Archie.</p>

<p>"Oh, gentlemen," said José, "I know my place too
well&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Come now, no affectations," said Jules. "We are
here like three soldiers in camp; will you be so good as
to come, you obstinate fellow?"</p>

<p>"Since you say so, gentlemen, I must obey my officers,"
answered Jules.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">46</a></span></p>

<p>The two young men seated themselves on the box
which served them also for a table. José took his place
very comfortably on a bundle of hay, and all three began
to eat and drink with a hearty appetite.</p>

<p>Archie, naturally abstemious, had soon finished his
meal. Having nothing better to do, he began to philosophize.
In his lighter moods he loved to propound
paradoxes for the pleasure of the argument.</p>

<p>"Do you know, brother mine, what it was that interested
me most in my friend's story?"</p>

<p>"No," exclaimed Jules, attacking another drumstick;
"and what's more, for the next quarter of an
hour I don't care. The hungry stomach has no ears."</p>

<p>"Oh, that's no matter," said Archie. "It was those
devils, goblins, spirits, or whatever you choose to call
them, with only one eye; I wish that the fashion could
be adopted among men; there would be fewer hypocrites,
fewer rogues, and therefore fewer dupes. Assuredly,
it is some consolation to see that virtue is held in
honor even among hobgoblins. Did you notice with
what respect those one-eyed fellows were treated by the
other imps?"</p>

<p>"That may be," said Jules, "but what does it
prove?"</p>

<p>"It proves," answered Lochiel, "that the one-eyed
fellows deserved the special attentions that were paid
them; they are the <i>haute noblesse</i> among hobgoblins.
Above all they are not hypocrites."</p>

<p>"Nonsense," said Jules, "I begin to be afraid your
brain is softening."</p>

<p>"Oh, no, I'm not so crazy as you think," answered
Archie. "Just watch a hypocrite with somebody he
wants to deceive. With what humility he keeps one eye
half shut while the other watches the effect of his words.
If he had but one eye he would lose this immense ad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">47</a></span>vantage,
and would have to give up his <i>rôle</i> of hypocrite
which he finds so profitable. There, you see, is one vice
the less. My Cyclops of a hobgoblin has probably many
other vices, but he is certainly no hypocrite; whence
the respect to which he is treated by a class of beings
stained with all the vices in the category."</p>

<p>"Here's your health, my Scottish philosopher," exclaimed
Jules, tossing off a glass of wine. "Hanged if
I understand a word of your reasoning though."</p>

<p>"But it's clear as day," answered Archie. "The
heavy and indigestible stuff with which you are loading
down your stomach must be clogging your brains. If
you ate nothing but oatmeal, as we Highlanders do,
your ideas would be a good deal clearer."</p>

<p>"That oatmeal seems to stick in your throat, my
friend," said Jules; "it ought to be easy enough to digest,
however, even without the help of sauce."</p>

<p>"Here's another example," said Archie. "A rogue
who wishes to cheat an honest man in any kind of a
transaction always keeps one eye winking or half shut,
while the other watches to see whether he is gaining or
losing in the trade. One eye is plotting while the other
watches. That is a vast advantage for the rogue. His
antagonist, on the other hand, seeing one eye clear,
frank, and honest, can not suspect what is going on behind
the eye which blinks, and plots, and calculates,
while its fellow keeps as impenetrable as fate. Now let
us reverse the matter," continued Archie. "Let us suppose
the same rogue in the same circumstances, but
blind of one eye. The honest man watching his face
may often read in his eye his inmost thoughts; for my
Cyclops, being himself suspicious, is constrained to keep
his one eye wide open."</p>

<p>"Rather," laughed Jules, "if he doesn't want to
break his neck."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">48</a></span></p>

<p>"Granted," replied Lochiel, "but still more for the
purpose of reading the soul of him he wants to deceive.
He finds it necessary, moreover, to give his eye an expression
of candor and good-fellowship in order to divert
suspicion&mdash;which must absorb a portion of his wits.
Then, since there are few men who can follow, without
the help of both their eyes, two different trains of
thought at the same time, our rogue finds that he has
lost half of his advantage. He renounces his wicked
calling, and society is the richer by one more honest
man."</p>

<p>"My poor Archie," murmured Jules, "I see that we
have exchanged <i>rôles</i>; that I am now the Scotch philosopher,
as I so courteously entitle you, while you are
the crazy Frenchman, as you irreverently term me.
For, don't you see, my new Prometheus, that this one-eyed
race of men, endowed with all the virtues which you
intend to substitute, might very readily blink, if that is
an infallible recipe for deception, and for the purpose
of taking observations just open their eye from time to
time."</p>

<p>"Oh, you French, you frivolous French, you deluded
French, no wonder the English catch you on the hip in
diplomacy!"</p>

<p>"It would seem to me," interrupted Jules, "that the
Scotch ought to know something by this time about
English diplomacy!"</p>

<p>Archie's face saddened and grew pale; his friend
had touched a sore spot. Jules perceived this at once
and said:</p>

<p>"Forgive me, dear fellow, if I have hurt you. I
know the subject is one that calls up painful memories.
I spoke, as usual, without thinking. One often thoughtlessly
wounds those one best loves by a retort which
one may think very witty. But come, let us drink to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">49</a></span>
merry life! Go on with your remarkable reasoning; that
will be pleasanter for both of us."</p>

<p>"The cloud has passed over, and I resume my argument,"
said Lochiel, repressing his emotion. "Don't
you see that my rascal could not shut his eye for an
instant without the risk of his prey escaping him? Do
you remember the squirrel that we saved last year from
that great snake, at the foot of the old maple-tree in
your father's park; remember how the snake kept its
glowing eyes fixed upon the poor little creature in order
to fascinate it; how the squirrel kept springing from
branch to branch with piteous cries, unable to remove
its gaze for an instant from that of the hideous reptile?
When we made it look away it was saved. Do you remember
how joyous it was after the death of its enemy?
Well, my friend, let our rogue shut his eye and his prey
escapes him."</p>

<p>"Verily," said Jules, "you are a mighty dialectician.
I shouldn't wonder if you would some day eclipse, if
you don't do it already, such prattlers as Socrates, Zeno,
Montaigne, and other philosophers of that ilk. The
only danger is lest your logic should some day land you
in the moon."</p>

<p>"You think you can make fun of me," said Archie.
"Very well, but only let some pedant, with his pen behind
his ear, undertake to refute my thesis seriously, and
a hundred scribblers in battle array will take sides for
and against, and floods of ink will flow. The world has
been deluged with blood itself in defense of theories
about as reasonable as mine. Why such a thing has
often been enough to make a man famous."</p>

<p>"Meanwhile," answered Jules, "your argument will
serve as one of those after-pieces with which Sancho
Panza used to put Don Quixote to sleep. As for me, I
greatly prefer the story of our friend José."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">50</a></span></p>

<p>"You are easily pleased, sir," said the latter, who
had been taking a nap during the scientific discussion.</p>

<p>"Let us listen," said Archie; "<i>Conticuêre omnes, intentique
ora tenebant.</i>"</p>

<p>"<i>Conticuêre</i> ... you irrepressible pedant," cried
D'Haberville.</p>

<p>"It's not one of the priest's stories," put in José
briskly; "but it is as true as if he had told it from the
pulpit; for my late father never lied."</p>

<p>"We believe you, my dear José," said Lochiel.
"But now please go on with your delightful narrative."</p>

<p>"Well," said José, "it happened that my late father,
brave as he was, was in such a devil of a funk that
the sweat was hanging from the end of his nose like
a head of oats. There he was, the dear man, with his
eyes bigger than his head, never daring to budge. Presently
he thought he heard behind him the 'tic tac,'
'tic tac,' which he had already heard several times on
the journey; but he had too much to occupy his attention
in front of him to pay much heed to what might
pass behind. Suddenly, when he was least expecting it,
he felt two great bony hands, like the claws of a bear,
grip him by the shoulders. He turned around horrified,
and found himself face to face with La Corriveau, who
was climbing on his back. She had thrust her hands
through the bars of her cage and succeeded in clutching
him; but the cage was heavy, and at every leap she fell
back again to the ground with a hoarse cry, without
losing her hold, however, on the shoulders of my late
father, who bent under the burden. If he had not held
tight to the fence with both hands, he would have been
crushed under the weight. My poor late father was so
overwhelmed with horror that one might have heard the
sweat that rolled off his forehead dropping down on
the fence like grains of duck-shot.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">51</a></span></p>

<p>"'My dear Francis,' said La Corriveau, 'do me the
pleasure of taking me to dance with my friends of Isle
d'Orléans?'</p>

<p>"'Oh, you devil's wench!' cried my late father.
That was the only oath the good man ever used, and
that only when very much tried."</p>

<p>"The deuce!" exclaimed Jules, "it seems to me that
the occasion was a very suitable one. For my own part,
I should have been swearing like a heathen."</p>

<p>"And I," said Archie, "like an Englishman."</p>

<p>"Isn't that much the same thing," answered D'Haberville.</p>

<p>"You are wrong, my dear Jules. I must acknowledge
that the heathen acquit themselves very well; but
the English? Oh, my! Le Roux who, soon as he got
out of college, made a point of reading all the bad books
he could get hold of, told us, if you remember, that that
blackguard of a Voltaire, as my uncle the Jesuit used
to call him, had declared in a book of his, treating of
what happened in France in the reign of Charles VII,
when that prince was hunting the islanders out of his
kingdom&mdash;Le Roux told us that Voltaire had put it on
record that 'every Englishman swears.' Well, my boy,
those events took place about the year 1445&mdash;let us say,
three hundred years ago. Judge, then, what dreadful
oaths that ill-tempered nation must have invented in the
course of three centuries!"</p>

<p>"I surrender," said Jules. "But go on, my dear
José."</p>

<p>"'Devil's wench!' exclaimed my late father, 'is that
your gratitude for my <i>de profundis</i> and all my other
prayers? You'd drag <i>me</i> into the orgie, would you? I
was thinking you must have been in for at least three or
four thousand years of purgatory for your pranks; and
you had only killed two husbands&mdash;which was a mere<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">52</a></span>
nothing. So having always a tender heart for everything,
I felt sorry for you, and said to myself we must
give you a helping hand. And this is the way you thank
me, that you want to straddle my shoulders and ride me
to hell like a heretic!'</p>

<p>"'My dear Francis,' said La Corriveau, 'take me
over to dance with my dear friends;' and she knocked
her head against that of my late father till her skull rattled
like a dry bladder filled with pebbles.</p>

<p>"'You may be sure,' said my late father, 'You hellish
wench of Judas Iscariot, I'm not going to be your
jackass to carry you over to dance with those pretty
darlings!'</p>

<p>"'My dear Francis,' answered the witch, 'I can not
cross the St. Lawrence, which is a consecrated stream,
except with the help of a Christian.'</p>

<p>"'Get over as best you can, you devilish gallows
bird,' said my late father. 'Get over as best you can;
every one to his own business. Oh, yes, a likely thing
that I'll carry you over to dance with your dear friends;
but that will be a devil of a journey you have come, the
Lord knows how, dragging that fine cage of yours, which
must have torn up all the stones on the king's highway!
A nice row there'll be when the inspector passes
this way one of these days and finds the road in such a
condition! And then, who but the poor <i>habitant</i> will
have to suffer for your frolics, getting fined for not having
kept the road properly!'</p>

<p>"The drum-major suddenly stopped beating on his
great sauce-pan. All the goblins halted and gave three
yells, three frightful whoops, like the Indians give when
they have danced that war-dance with which they always
begin their bloody expeditions. The island was shaken
to its foundation, the wolves, the bears, all the other
wild beasts, and the demons of the northern mountains<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">53</a></span>
took up the cry, and the echoes repeated it till it was
lost in the forests of the far-off Saguenay.</p>

<p>"My poor, late father thought that the end of the
world had come, and the Day of Judgment.</p>

<p>"The tall devil with the sauce-pan struck three
blows; and a silence most profound succeeded the
hellish hubbub. He stretched out his arm toward my
late father, and cried with a voice of thunder: 'Will you
make haste, you lazy dog? will you make haste, you cur
of a Christian, and ferry our friend across? We have
only fourteen thousand four hundred times more to
prance around the island before cock-crow. Are you
going to make her lose the best of the fun?'</p>

<p>"'Go to the devil, where you all belong,' answered
my late father, losing all patience.</p>

<p>"'Come, my dear Francis,' said La Corriveau, 'be a
little more obliging. You are acting like a child about
a mere trifle. Moreover, see how the time is flying.
Come, now, one little effort!'</p>

<p>"'No, no, my wench of Satan,' said my late father.
'Would to Heaven you still had on the fine collar which
the hangman put around your neck two years ago. You
wouldn't have so clear a wind-pipe.'</p>

<p>"During this dialogue the goblins on the island resumed
their chorus:</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">"'Here we go all round,<br />
Hands all round,<br />
Here we go all round.'"<br /></div></div>


<p>"'My dear Francis,' said the witch, 'if your body
and bones won't carry me over, I'm going to strangle
you. I will straddle your soul and ride over to the festival.'
With these words, she seized him by the throat
and strangled him."</p>

<p>"What," exclaimed the young men, "she strangled
your poor, late father, now dead?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">54</a></span></p>

<p>"When I said strangled, it was very little better
than that," answered José, "for the dear man lost his
consciousness."</p>

<p>"When he came to himself he heard a little bird,
which cried <i>Qué-tu</i>? (Who art thou?)</p>

<p>"'Oh, ho!' said my late father, 'it's plain I'm not
in hell, since I hear the dear Lord's birds!' He opened
first one eye, then the other, and saw that it was broad
daylight. The sun was shining right in his face; the
little bird, perched on a neighboring branch, kept crying
<i>qué-tu</i>?'</p>

<p>"'My dear child,' said my late father, 'it is not very
easy to answer your question, for I'm not very certain
this morning just who I am. Only yesterday I believed
myself to be a brave, honest, and God-fearing man; but
I have had such an experience this night that I can
hardly be sure that it is I, Francis Dubé, here present in
body and soul. Then the dear man began to sing:</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">'Here we go all round,<br />
Hands all round,<br />
Here we go all round.'<br /></div></div>

<p>"In fact, he was half bewitched. At last, however,
he perceived that he was lying full length in a ditch
where, happily, there was more mud than water; but for
that my poor, late father, who now sleeps with the saints,
surrounded by all his relations and friends, and fortified
by all the holy sacraments, would have died without absolution,
like a monkey in his old tree, begging your
pardon for the comparison, young gentlemen. When
he had got his face clear from the mud of the ditch, in
which he was stuck fast as in a vise, the first thing he
saw was his flask on the bank above him. At this he
plucked up his courage and stretched out his hand to
take a drink. But no such luck! The flask was empty!
The witch had drained every drop."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">55</a></span></p>

<p>"My dear José," said Lochiel, "I think I am about
as brave as the next one. Nevertheless, if such an adventure
had happened to me, never again would I have
traveled alone at night."</p>

<p>"Nor I either," said D'Haberville.</p>

<p>"To tell you the truth, gentlemen," said José, "since
you are so discriminating, I will confess that my late
father, who before this adventure would not have turned
a hair in the graveyard at midnight, was never afterward
so bold; he dared not even go alone after sunset to do
his chores in the stable."</p>

<p>"And very sensible he was; but finish your story,"
said Jules.</p>

<p>"It is finished," said José. "My late father harnessed
his horse, who appeared, poor brute, to have noticed
nothing unusual, and made his way home fast as
possible. It was not till a fortnight later that he told us
his adventure."</p>

<p>"What do you say to all that, my self-satisfied skeptic
who would refuse to Canada the luxury of witches
and wizards?" inquired D'Haberville.</p>

<p>"I say," answered Archie, "that our Highland
witches are mere infants compared with those of New
France, and, what's more, if ever I get back to my Scottish
hills, I'm going to imprison all our hobgoblins in
bottles, as Le Sage did with his wooden-legged devil,
Asmodeus."</p>

<p>"Hum-m-m!" said José. "It would serve them just
right, accursed blackguards; but where would you get
bottles big enough? There'd be the difficulty."</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">56</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">THE BREAKING UP OF THE ICE.</span></h2>
</div>

<blockquote>
<p>On entendit du côté de la mer un bruit epouvantable, comme si des torrents
d'eau, mêlés à des tonnerres, eussent roulé du haut des montagnes;
tout le monde s'écria: voilà l'ouragan.</p>

<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Bernardin de Saint-Pierre.</span><br />
</p></blockquote>

<p class="center">
Though aged, he was so iron of limb<br />
Few of your youths could cope with him.</p>

<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Byron.</span></p>

<p class="center">
Que j'aille à son secours, s'écria-t-il, ou que je meure.<br />
</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Bernardin de Saint-Pierre.</span><br />
</p>

<p>
Les vents et les vagues sont toujours du côté du plus habile nageur.</p>

<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Gibbon.</span>
</p>


<p>The travelers merrily continued their journey. The
day drew to a close, and they kept on for a time by starlight.
At length the moon rose and shone far over the
still bosom of the Saint Lawrence. At the sight of her,
Jules broke out into rhapsodies, and cried:</p>

<p>"I feel myself inspired, not by the waters of Hippocrene,
which I have never tasted and which, I trust, I
never shall taste, but by the kindly juice of Bacchus,
dearer than all the fountains in the world, not even excepting
the limpid wave of Parnassus. Hail to thee, fair
moon! Hail to thee, thou silvern lamp, that lightest
the steps of two men free as the children of our mighty
forests, two men but now escaped from the shackles of
college! How many times, O moon, as thy pale rays
pierced to my lonely couch, how many times have I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">57</a></span>
longed to break my bonds and mingle with the joyous
throngs at balls and routs, while a harsh and inexorable
decree condemned me to a sleep which I abhorred!
Ah, how many times, O moon, have I sighed to traverse,
mounted upon thy crescent at the risk of breaking my
neck, the regions thou wast illuminating in thy stately
course, even though it should take me to another hemisphere!
Ah, how many times&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Ah, how many times in thy life hast thou talked
nonsense!" exclaimed Archie. "But, since frenzy is infectious,
listen now to a true poet, and abase thyself,
proud spirit. O moon, thou of the threefold essence,
thou whom the poets of old invoked as Artemis the
Huntress, how sweet it must be to thee to forsake the
dark realms of Pluto, and not less the forests wherein,
with thy baying pack, thou raisest a din enough to deafen
all the demons of Canada! How sweet it must be to
thee, O moon, to journey now in tranquil dominance, in
stupendous silence, the ethereal spaces of heaven! Repent
of thy work, I beseech thee! Restore the light of
reason to this poor afflicted one, my dearest friend, who&mdash;"</p>

<p>"O Phoebe, patron of fools," interrupted Jules,
"not for my friend have I any prayer to make thee.
Thou art all guiltless of his infirmity, for the mischief
was done&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I say, gentlemen," exclaimed José, "when you are
done your conversation with my lady moon&mdash;I don't
know how you find so much to say to her&mdash;would it
please you to notice what a noise they are making in
St. Thomas yonder?"</p>

<p>All listened intently. It was the church bell pealing
wildly.</p>

<p>"It is the Angelus," exclaimed Jules D'Haberville.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," exclaimed José, "the Angelus at eight
o'clock in the evening."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">58</a></span></p>

<p>"Then it's a fire," said Archie.</p>

<p>"But we don't see any flames," answered José.
"Whatever it is let's make haste. There is something
unusual going on yonder."</p>

<p>Driving as fast as they could, half an hour later
they entered the village of St. Thomas. All was silence.
The village appeared deserted. Only the dogs, shut up
in some of the houses, were barking madly. But for the
noise of the curs they might have thought themselves
transported into that city which we read of in the Arabian
Nights whose inhabitants had all been turned into
marble.</p>

<p>Our travelers were on the point of entering the
church, the bell of which was still ringing, when they
noticed a light and heard shouts from the bank by the
rapids near the manor house. Thither they made their
way at full speed.</p>

<p>It would take the pen of a Cooper or a Chateaubriand
to paint the scene that met their eyes on the
bank of South River.</p>

<p>Captain Marcheterre, an old sailor of powerful frame,
was returning to the village toward dusk at a brisk pace,
when he heard out on the river a noise like some heavy
body falling into the water, and immediately afterward
the groans and cries of some one appealing for help. It
was a rash <i>habitant</i> named Dumais, who, thinking the ice
yet sufficiently firm, had ventured upon it with his team,
about a dozen rods southwest of the town. The ice
had split up so suddenly that his team vanished in the
current. The unhappy Dumais, a man of great activity,
had just succeeded in springing from the sled to a
stronger piece of ice, but the violence of the effort had
proved disastrous; catching his foot in a crevice, he
had snapped his leg at the ankle like a bit of glass.</p>

<p>Marcheterre, who knew the dangerous condition of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">59</a></span>
the ice, which was split in many places, shouted to him
not to stir, and that he was going to bring him help.
He ran at once to the sexton, telling him to ring the
alarm while he was routing out the nearest neighbors.
In a moment, all was bustle and confusion. Men ran
hither and thither without accomplishing anything.
Women and children began to cry. Dogs began to
howl, sounding every note of the canine gamut; so that
the captain, whose experience pointed him out as the
one to direct the rescue, had great difficulty in making
himself heard.</p>

<p>However, under the directions of Marcheterre, some
ran for ropes and boards while others stripped the fences
and wood-piles of their cedar and birch bark to make
torches. The scene grew more and more animated, and
by the light of fifty torches shedding abroad their fitful
glare the crowd spread along the river bank to the spot
pointed out by the old sailor.</p>

<p>Dumais waited patiently enough for the coming of
help. As soon as he could make himself heard he implored
them to hurry, for he was beginning to hear under
the ice low grumbling sounds which seemed to come
from far off toward the river's mouth.</p>

<p>"There's not a moment to lose, my friends," exclaimed
the old captain, "for that is a sign the ice is going
to break up."</p>

<p>Men less experienced than he wished immediately to
thrust out upon the ice their planks and boards without
waiting to tie them together; but this he forbade, for the
ice was already full of cracks, and moreover the ice cake
which supported Dumais was isolated, having on the one
side the shattered surface where the horse had been engulfed,
and on the other a large air-hole which cut off
all approach. Marcheterre, who knew that the breaking
up was not only inevitable, but to be expected at any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">60</a></span>
moment, was unwilling to risk the life of so many people
without taking every precaution that his experience could
dictate.</p>

<p>Some thereupon with hatchets began to notch the
planks and boards; some tied them together end to end;
some, with the captain at their head, dragged them out
on the ice, while others were pushing from the bank.
This improvised bridge was not more than fifty feet from
the bank when the old sailor cried: "Now, boys, let
some strong active fellows follow me at a distance of ten
feet from one another, and let the rest keep pushing as
before!"</p>

<p>Marcheterre was closely followed by his son, a young
man in the prime of life, who, knowing his father's boldness,
kept within reach in order to help him in case of
need, for lugubrious mutterings, the ominous forerunners
of a mighty cataclysm, were making themselves
heard beneath the ice. But every one was at his post
and every one doing his utmost; those who broke
through, dragged themselves out by means of the floating
bridge, and, once more on the solid ice, resumed their
efforts with renewed zeal. Two or three minutes more
and Dumais would be saved.</p>

<p>The two Marcheterres, the father ahead, were within
about a hundred feet of the wretched victim of his own
imprudence, when a subterranean thunder, such as precedes
a strong shock of earthquake, seemed to run the
whole length of South River. This subterranean sound
was at once followed by an explosion like the discharge
of a great piece of artillery. Then rose a terrible cry.
"The ice is going! the ice is going! save yourselves!"
screamed the crowd on shore.</p>

<p>Indeed the ice cakes were shivering on all sides under
the pressure of the flood, which was already invading the
banks. Then followed dreadful confusion. The ice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">61</a></span>
cakes turned completely over, climbed upon each other
with a frightful grinding noise, piled themselves to a
great height, then sank suddenly and disappeared beneath
the waves. The planks and boards were tossed
about like cockle-shells in an ocean gale. The ropes
and chains threatened every moment to give away.</p>

<p>The spectators, horror-stricken at the sight of their
kinsfolk exposed to almost certain destruction, kept crying:
"Save yourselves! save yourselves!" It would
have been indeed tempting Providence to continue any
longer the rash and unequal struggle with the flood.</p>

<p>Marcheterre, however, who seemed rather inspired
than daunted by the appalling spectacle, ceased not to
shout: "Forward boys! forward, for God's sake!"</p>

<p>This old sea-lion, ever cool and unmoved when on
the deck of his reeling ship and directing a man&oelig;uvre on
whose success the lives of all depended, was just as calm
in the face of a peril which froze the boldest hearts.
Turning round, he perceived that, with the exception of
his son and Joncas, one of his sailors, the rest had all
sought safety in a headlong flight. "Oh, you cowards,
you cowards!" he cried.</p>

<p>He was interrupted by his son, who, seeing him rushing
to certain death, seized him and threw him down on
a plank, where he held him some moments in spite of
the old man's mighty struggles. Then followed a terrible
conflict between father and son. It was filial love
against that sublime self-abnegation, the love of humanity.</p>

<p>The old man, by a tremendous effort, succeeded in
throwing himself off the plank, and he and his son rolled
on to the ice, where the struggle was continued fiercely.
At this crisis, Joncas, leaping from plank to plank, from
board to board, came to the young man's assistance.</p>

<p>The spectators, who from the shore lost nothing of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">62</a></span>
the heart-rending scene, in spite of the water already
pursuing them, made haste to draw in the ropes, and
the united efforts of a hundred brawny arms were successful
in rescuing the three heroes. Scarcely, indeed,
had they reached a place of safety, when the great sheet
of ice, which had hitherto remained stationary in spite of
the furious attacks of the enemy assailing it on all sides,
groaning, and with a slow majesty of movement, began
its descent toward the falls.</p>

<p>All eyes were straightway fixed upon Dumais. He
was a brave man. Many a time had he proved his courage
upon the enemies of his country. He had even faced
the most hideous of deaths, when, bound to a post, he
was on the point of being burned alive by the Iroquois,
which he would have been but for the timely aid of his
friends the Melicites. Now he was sitting on his precarious
refuge calm and unmoved as a statue of death.
He made some signs toward the shore, which the spectators
understood as a last farewell to his friends. Then,
folding his arms, or occasionally lifting them toward
heaven, he appeared to forget all earthly ties and to
prepare himself for passing the dread limits which divide
man from the eternal.</p>

<p>Once safely ashore, the captain displayed no more
of his anger. Regaining his customary coolness he gave
his orders calmly and precisely.</p>

<p>"Let us take our floating bridge," said he, "and follow
yonder sheet of ice down river."</p>

<p>"What is the use?" cried some who appeared to
have had experience. "The poor fellow is beyond the
reach of help."</p>

<p>"There's one chance yet, one little chance of saving
him," said the old sailor, giving ear to certain sounds
which he heard far off to the southward, "and we must
be ready for it. The ice is on the point of breaking up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">63</a></span>
in the St. Nicholas, which, as you know, is very rapid.
The violence of the flood at that point is likely to crowd
the ice of South River over against our shore; and what's
more, we shall have no reason to reproach ourselves."</p>

<p>It fell out as Captain Marcheterre predicted. In a
moment or two there was a mighty report like a peal of
thunder; and the St. Nicholas, bursting madly from its
fetters, hurled itself upon the flank of the vast procession
of ice floes which, having hitherto encountered no
obstacle, were pursuing their triumphant way to the St.
Lawrence. It seemed for a moment that the fierce and
swift attack, the sudden thrust, was going to pile the
greater part of the ice cakes upon the other shore as the
captain hoped. The change it wrought was but momentary,
for the channel getting choked there was an abrupt
halt, and the ice cakes, piling one upon another, took the
shape of a lofty rampart. Checked by this obstacle, the
waves spread far beyond both shores and flooded the
greater part of the village. This sudden deluge, driving
the spectators from the banks, destroyed the last hope
of poor Dumais.</p>

<p>The struggle was long and obstinate between the
angry element and the obstacle which barred its course;
but at length the great lake, ceaselessly fed by the main
river and the tributaries, rose to the top of the dam,
whose foundations it was at the same time eating away
from beneath. The barrier, unable to resist the stupendous
weight, burst with a roar that shook both banks.
As South River widens suddenly below its junction with
the St. Nicholas, the unchained mass darted down
stream like an arrow, and its course was unimpeded to
the cataract.</p>

<p>Dumais had resigned himself to his fate. Calm amid
the tumult, his hands crossed upon his breast, his eyes
lifted heavenward, he seemed absorbed in contemplation.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">64</a></span></p>

<p>The spectators crowded toward the cataract to see
the end of the tragedy. Numbers, roused by the alarm
bell, had gathered on the other shore and had supplied
themselves with torches by stripping off the bark from
the cedar rails. The dreadful scene was lighted as if
for a festival.</p>

<p>One could see in the distance the long, imposing
structure of the manor house, to the southwest of the
river. It was built on the top of a knoll overlooking the
basin and ran parallel to the falls. About a hundred
feet from the manor house rose the roof of a saw mill,
the sluice of which was connected with the fall itself.
Two hundred feet from the mill, upon the crest of the fall,
were sharply outlined the remnants of a little island upon
which, for ages, the spring floods had spent their fury.
Shorn of its former size&mdash;for it had once been a peninsula&mdash;the
islet was not now more than twelve feet square.</p>

<p>Of all the trees that had once adorned the spot there
remained but a single cedar. This veteran, which for so
many years had braved the fury of the equinoxes and
the ice floods of South River, had half given way before
the relentless assaults. Its crown hung sadly over the
abyss in which it threatened soon to disappear. Several
hundred feet from this islet stood a grist mill, to the
northwest of the fall.</p>

<p>Owing to a curve in the shore, the tremendous mass
of ice which, drawn by the fall, was darting down the
river with frightful speed, crowded all into the channel
between the islet and the flour mill, the sluice of which
was demolished in a moment. Then the ice cakes, piling
themselves against the timbers to the height of the
roof, ended by crushing the mill itself as if it had been
a house of cards. The ice having taken this direction,
the channel between the saw mill and the island was
comparatively free.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">65</a></span></p>

<p>The crowd kept running along the bank and watching
with horrified interest the man whom nothing short
of a miracle could save from a hideous death. Indeed,
up to within about thirty feet of the island, Dumais was
being carried farther and farther from his only hope of
rescue, when an enormous ice cake, dashing down with
furious speed, struck one corner of the piece on which
he was sitting, and diverted it violently from its course.
It wheeled upon the little island and came in contact
with the ancient cedar, the only barrier between Dumais
and the abyss. The tree groaned under the shock; its
top broke off and vanished in the foam. Relieved of
this weight, the old tree recovered itself suddenly, and
made ready for one more struggle against the enemies it
had so often conquered.</p>

<p>Dumais, thrown forward by the unexpected shock,
clasped the trunk of the cedar convulsively with both
arms. Supporting himself on one leg, he clung there
desperately while the ice swayed and cracked and threatened
every instant to drag him from his frail support.</p>

<p>Nothing was lacking to the lurid and dreadful scene.
The hurrying torches on the shores threw a grim light
on the ghastly features and staring eyes of the poor
wretch thus hanging by a hair above the gulf of death.
Unquestionably Dumais was brave, but in this position
of unspeakable horror he lost his self-control.</p>

<p>Marcheterre and his friends, however, still cherished
a hope of saving him.</p>

<p>Descrying on the shore near the saw mill two great
pieces of squared timber, they dragged these to a rock
which projected into the river about two hundred feet
above the fall; to each of these timbers they attached a
cable and launched them forth, in hopes that the current
would carry them upon the island. Vain attempt!
They could not thrust them far enough out into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">66</a></span>
stream, and the timbers, anchored, as it were, by the
weight of the chains, kept swaying mid way between
shore and island.</p>

<p>It seemed impossible to add to the awful sublimity
of the picture, but on the shore was being enacted a
most impressive scene. It was religion preparing the
Christian to appear before the dread tribunal; it was
religion supporting him to endure the final agony.</p>

<p>The parish priest, who had been at a sick bed, was
now upon the scene. He was a tall old man of ninety.
The burden of years had not availed to bend this modern
Nestor, who had baptized and married all his parishioners,
and had buried three generations of them.
His long hair, white as snow and tossed by the night
wind, made him look like a prophet of old. He stood
erect on the shore, his hands stretched out to the miserable
Dumais. He loved him; he had christened him; he
had prepared him for that significant rite of the Catholic
Church which seems suddenly to touch a child's nature
with something of the angelic. He loved him also
as the husband of an orphan girl whom the old priest
had brought up. He loved him for the sake of his two
little ones, who were the joy of his old age. Standing
there on the shore, like the Angel of Pity, he not only
administered the consolations of his sacred office, but
spoke to him tender words of love. He promised him
that the seigneur would never let his family come to
want. Finally, seeing the tree yield more and more before
every shock, he cried in a loud voice, broken with
sobs: "My son, make me the 'Act of Contrition' and I
will give you absolution." A moment later, in a voice
that rang clear above the roaring of the flood and of the
cataract, the old priest pronounced these words: "My
son, in the name of God the Father, in the name of
Jesus Christ, his Son, by whose authority I speak, in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">67</a></span>
name of the Holy Ghost, your sins are forgiven you.
Amen." And all the people sobbed, "Amen."</p>

<p>Then Nature reasserted herself, and the old man's
voice was choked with tears. Again he regained his
self-control, and cried: "Kneel, brethren, while I say
the prayers for the dying."</p>

<p>Once more the old priest's voice soared above the
tumult, as he cried:</p>

<p>"Blessed soul, we dismiss you from the body in the
name of God the Father Almighty who created you, in
the name of Jesus Christ who suffered for you, in the
name of the Holy Ghost in whom you were regenerate
and born again, in the name of the angels and the archangels,
in the name of the thrones and the dominions,
in the name of the cherubim and seraphim, in the
name of the patriarchs and prophets, in the name of
the blessed monks and nuns and all the saints of God.
The peace of God be with you this day, and your dwelling
forever in Sion; through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen." And all the people wailed "Amen."</p>

<p>A death-like silence fell upon the scene, when suddenly
shrieks were heard in the rear of the crowd, and a
woman in disordered garments, her hair streaming out
behind her, carrying a child in her arms and dragging
another at her side, pushed her way wildly to the river's
edge. It was the wife of Dumais.</p>

<p>Dwelling about a mile and a half from the village,
she had heard the alarm bell; but being alone with her
children, whom she could not leave, she had resigned
herself as best she could till her husband should return
and tell her the cause of the excitement.</p>

<p>The woman, when she saw her husband thus hanging
on the lip of the fall, uttered but one cry, a cry so terrible
that it pierced every heart, and sank in a merciful
unconsciousness. She was carried to the manor house,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">68</a></span>
where every care was lavished upon her by Madame de
Beaumont and her family.</p>

<p>As for Dumais, at the sight of his wife and children,
a hoarse scream, inarticulate and like the voice of a
wounded beast, forced its way from his lips and made
all that heard it shudder. Then he appeared to fall
into a kind of stupor.</p>

<p>At the very moment when the old priest was administering
the absolution our travelers arrived upon the
scene. Jules thrust through the crowd and took his
place between the priest and his uncle de Beaumont.
Archie, on the other hand, pushed forward to the water's
edge, folded his arms, took a rapid survey of the situation,
and calculated the chances of rescue.</p>

<p>After a moment's thought, he bounded rather than
ran toward the group surrounding Marcheterre. He
began to strip off his clothes and to give directions at
the same time. His words were few and to the point:
"Captain, I am like a fish in the water; there is no danger
for me, but for the poor fellow yonder, in case I should
strike that block of ice too hard and dash it from its
place. Stop me about a dozen feet above the island,
that I may calculate the distance better and break the
shock. Your own judgment will tell you what else to
do. Now, for a strong rope, but as light as possible,
and a good sailor's knot."</p>

<p>While the old captain was fastening the rope under
his arms, he attached another rope to his body, taking
the coil in his right hand. Thus equipped, he sprang
into the river, where he disappeared for an instant, but
when he came to the surface the current bore him rapidly
toward the shore. He made the mightiest efforts to
gain the island, but without succeeding, seeing which
Marcheterre made all haste to draw him back to land
before his strength was exhausted. The moment he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">69</a></span>
was on shore, he made his way to the jutting rock.
The spectators scarcely breathed when they saw Archie
plunge into the flood. Every one knew of his giant
strength, his exploits as a swimmer during his vacation
visits to the manor house of Beaumont. The anxiety
of the crowd, therefore, had been intense during the
young man's superhuman efforts, and, on seeing his failure,
a cry of disappointment went up from every breast.</p>

<p>Jules D'Haberville was all unaware of his friend's
heroic undertaking. Of an emotional and sympathetic
nature, he could not endure the heart-rending sight that
met his view. After one glance of measureless pity, he
had fixed his eyes on the ground and refused to raise
them. This human being suspended on the verge of
the bellowing gulf, this venerable priest administering
from afar under the open heaven the sacrament of
penance, the anguished prayers, the sublime invocation,
all seemed to him a dreadful dream.</p>

<p>Absorbed in these conflicting emotions, Jules D'Haberville
had no idea of Archie's efforts to save Dumais.
He had heard the lamentations which greeted the first
fruitless effort, and had attributed them to some little
variation in the spectacle from which he withheld his
gaze.</p>

<p>The bond between these two friends was no ordinary
tie; it was the love between a David and a Jonathan,
"passing the love of woman."</p>

<p>Jules, indeed, spared Archie none of his ridicule, but
the privilege of tormenting was one which he would permit
no other to share. Unlucky would he be who should
affront Lochiel in the presence of the impetuous young
Frenchman!</p>

<p>Whence arose this passionate affection? The young
men had apparently little in common. Lochiel was
somewhat cold in demeanor, while Jules was exuberantly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">70</a></span>
demonstrative. They resembled one another, however,
in one point of profoundest importance; they were
both high-hearted and generous to the last degree.</p>

<p>José, who had been watching Lochiel's every movement,
and who well knew the extravagance of Jules's devotion,
had slipped behind his young master, and stood
ready to restrain, by force, if necessary, this fiery and
indomitable spirit.</p>

<p>The anxiety of the spectators became almost unendurable
over Archie's second attempt to save Dumais,
whom they regarded as utterly beyond hope. The convulsive
trembling of the unhappy man showed that his
strength was rapidly ebbing. Nothing but the old priest's
prayers broke the deathly silence.</p>

<p>As for Lochiel, his failure had but strengthened
him in his heroic purpose. He saw clearly that the
effort was likely to cost him his life. The rope, his only
safety, might well break when charged with a double
burden and doubly exposed to the torrent's force. Too
skillful a swimmer was he not to realize the peril of endeavoring
to rescue one who could in no way help himself.</p>

<p>Preserving his coolness, however, he merely said to
Marcheterre:</p>

<p>"We must change our tactics. It is this coil of rope
in my right hand which has hampered me from first to
last."</p>

<p>Thereupon he enlarged the loop, which he passed
over his right shoulder and under his left armpit, in order
to leave both arms free. This done, he made a
bound like that of a tiger, and, disappearing beneath the
waves, which bore him downward at lightning speed, he
did not come to the surface until within about a dozen feet
of the island, where, according to agreement, Marcheterre
checked his course. This movement appeared likely to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">71</a></span>
prove fatal, for, losing his balance, he was so turned over
that his head remained under the waves while the rest
of his body was held horizontally on the surface of the
current. Happily his coolness did not desert him in this
crisis, so great was his confidence in the old sailor. The
latter promptly let out two more coils of rope with a
jerky movement, and Lochiel, employing one of those
devices which are known to skillful swimmers, drew his
heels suddenly up to his hips, thrust them out perpendicularly
with all his strength, beat the water violently
on one side with his hands, and so regained his balance.
Then, thrusting forward his right shoulder to protect
his breast from a shock which might be as fatal to himself
as to Dumais, he was swept upon the island in a
flash.</p>

<p>Dumais, in spite of his apparent stupor, had lost
nothing of what was passing. A ray of hope had struggled
through his despair at sight of Lochiel's tremendous
leap from the summit of the rock. Scarcely had the
latter, indeed, reached the edge of the ice, where he
clung with one hand while loosening with the other the
coil of rope, than Dumais, dropping his hold on the cedar,
took such a leap upon his one uninjured leg that
he fell into Archie's very arms.</p>

<p>The torrent at once rose upon the ice, which, borne
down by the double weight, reared like an angry horse.
The towering mass, pushed irresistibly by the torrent,
fell upon the cedar, and the old tree, after a vain resistance,
sank into the abyss, dragging with it in its fall a
large portion of the domain over which it had held sway
for centuries.</p>

<p>Mighty was the shout that went up from both banks
of South River&mdash;a shout of triumph from the more distant
spectators, a heart-rending cry of anguish from
those nearer the stage whereon this drama of life and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">72</a></span>
death was playing itself out. Indeed, all had disappeared,
as if the wand of a mighty enchanter had been waved
over scene and actors. From bank to bank, in all its
breadth, the cataract displayed nothing but a line of
gigantic waves falling with a sound of thunder, and a
curtain of pale foam waving to the summit of its crest.</p>

<p>Jules D'Haberville had not recognized his friend till
the moment when, for the second time, he plunged into
the waves. Having often witnessed his exploits as a
swimmer, and knowing his tremendous strength, Jules
had manifested at first merely a bewildered astonishment;
but when he saw his friend disappear beneath the
torrent, he uttered such a mad cry as comes from the
heart of a mother at sight of the mangled body of an
only son. Wild with grief, he was on the point of springing
into the river, when he felt himself imprisoned by
the iron arms of José.</p>

<p>Prayers, threats, cries of rage and despair, blows and
bites&mdash;all were utterly wasted on the faithful José.</p>

<p>"There, there, my dear Master Jules," said José,
"strike me, bite me, if that's any comfort to you, but,
for God's sake, be calm. You'll see your friend again
all right enough; you know he dives like a porpoise,
and one never knows when he is going to come up again
when once he goes under water. Be calm, my dear little
Master Jules, you wouldn't want to be the death of
poor José, who loves you so, and who has so often carried
you in his arms. Your father sent me to bring you
from Quebec. I am answerable for you, body and soul,
and it won't be my fault if I don't hand you over to
him safe and sound. Otherwise, you see, Master Jules,
why just a little bullet through old José's head! But,
hold on, there's the captain hauling in on the rope with
all his might, and you may be sure Master Archie is on
the other end of it and lively as ever."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">73</a></span></p>

<p>It was as José said; Marcheterre and his companions,
in furious haste, were running down the shore and
by mighty armfuls dragging in the rope, at the end of
which they felt a double burden.</p>

<p>In another moment the weight was dragged ashore.
It was all that they could do to set Lochiel free from
the convulsive clasp of Dumais, who gave no other sign
of life. Archie, on the other hand, when delivered from
the embrace which was strangling him, vomited a few
mouthfuls of water, breathed hoarsely, and exclaimed:</p>

<p>"He is not dead; it is nothing more than a swoon;
he was lively enough a minute ago."</p>

<p>Dumais was carried in all haste to the manor house,
where everything that the most loving care could suggest
was done for him. At the end of a half-hour some drops
of wholesome moisture gathered upon his brow, and a
little later he reopened haggard eyes. After staring
wildly around the room for a time, he at length fixed his
regard upon the old priest. The latter placed his ear to
Dumais's lips, and the first words he gathered were:
"My wife! My children! Mr. Archie!"</p>

<p>"Be at ease, my dear Dumais," said the old man.
"Your wife has recovered from her swoon; but, as she
believes you to be dead, I must be careful how I tell her
of your deliverance, lest I kill her with joy. As soon as
prudent I will bring her to you. Meanwhile, here is Mr.
de Lochiel, to whom, through God, you owe your life."</p>

<p>At the sight of his deliverer, whom he had not yet
recognized among the attendants who crowded about
him, a change came over the sick man. He embraced
Archie, he pressed his lips to his cheek, and a flood of
tears broke from his eyes.</p>

<p>"How can I ever repay you," said he, "for all you
have done for me, for my poor wife, and for my children?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">74</a></span></p>

<p>"By getting well again as soon as possible," answered
Lochiel gayly. "The seigneur has sent a messenger
post-haste to Quebec to fetch the most skillful surgeon,
and another to place relays of horses along the whole
route, so that by midday to-morrow, at the latest, your
leg will be so well set that within two months you will
be able again to carry the musket against your old enemies
the Iroquois."</p>

<p>When the old priest entered the room whither they
had taken his adopted daughter, the latter was sitting up
in bed, holding her youngest child in her arms while the
other slept at her feet. Pale as death, cold, and unresponsive
to all that was said by Madame de Beaumont
and the other women, she kept repeating incessantly:
"My husband! my poor husband! I shall not even be
allowed to kiss the dead body of my husband, the father
of my children!"</p>

<p>When she saw the old priest she stretched out her
arms to him and cried: "Is it you, my father, you who
have been so kind to me since childhood? Is it you
who can have the heart to come and tell me all is over?
No, I know your love too well; you can not bring
such a message. Speak, I implore you, you whose lips
can utter nothing but good!"</p>

<p>"Your husband," said the old man, "will receive
Christian burial."</p>

<p>"He is dead, then," cried the unhappy woman; and
for the first time she burst into tears.</p>

<p>This was the reaction which the old priest looked
for.</p>

<p>"My daughter," said he, "but a moment ago you
were praying as a peculiar favor that you might be permitted
once more to embrace the body of your husband,
and God has heard your petition. Trust in him, for the
mighty hand which has plucked your husband out of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">75</a></span>
abyss is able also to give him back to life." The young
woman answered with a fresh storm of sobs.</p>

<p>"He is the same all-merciful God," went on the old
priest, "who said to Lazarus in the tomb, 'Friend, I say
unto you arise!' All hope is not yet lost, for your husband
in his present state of suffering&mdash;"</p>

<p>The poor woman, who had hitherto listened to her
old friend without understanding him, seemed suddenly
to awaken as from a horrible nightmare, and clasping
her sleeping children in her arms she sprang to the
door.</p>

<p>On the meeting between Dumais and his family we
will not intrude.</p>

<p>"Now, let us go to supper," said the seigneur to his
venerable friend. "We all need it, but more especially
this heroic young man," added he, bringing Archie forward.</p>

<p>"Gently, gently, my dear sir," said the old priest.
"We have first a more pressing duty to fulfill. We have
to thank God, who has so manifested his favor this
night."</p>

<p>All present fell on their knees; and the old priest in
a short but touching prayer rendered thanks to Him
who commands the sea in its fury, who holds His creatures
in the hollow of His hand.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">76</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">A SUPPER AT THE HOUSE OF A FRENCH-CANADIAN SEIGNEUR.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">Half-cut-down, a pasty costly made,<br />
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret, lay<br />
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks<br />
Imbedded and injellied.<br /></div></div></div>

<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Tennyson.</span></p>



<p>The table was spread in a low but spacious room,
whose furniture, though not luxurious, lacked nothing
of what an Englishman calls comfort.</p>

<p>A thick woolen carpet, of Canadian manufacture and
of a diamond pattern, covered the greater part of the
dining-room floor. The bright woolen curtains, the
backs of the mahogany sofa, ottomans, and chairs were
embroidered with gigantic birds, such as it would have
puzzled the most brilliant ornithologist to classify.</p>

<p>A great sideboard, reaching almost to the ceiling,
displayed on its many shelves a service of blue Marseilles
china, of a thickness to defy the awkwardness of
the servants. Over the lower part of this sideboard,
which served the purpose of a cupboard and which
might be called the ground floor of the structure, projected
a shelf a foot and a half wide, on which stood a
sort of tall narrow cabinet, whose drawers, lined with
green cloth, held the silver spoons and forks. On this
shelf also were some bottles of old wine, together with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">77</a></span>
great silver jar of water, for the use of those who cared
to dilute their beverage.</p>

<p>A pile of plates of the finest porcelain, two decanters
of white wine, a couple of tarts, a dish of whipped
cream, some delicate biscuits, a bowl of sweetmeats, on
a little table near the sideboard covered with a white
cloth, constituted the dessert. In one corner of the
room stood a sort of barrel-shaped fountain of blue and
white stone china, with faucet and basin, where the
family might rinse their hands.</p>

<p>In an opposite corner a great closet, containing
square bottles filled with brandy, absinthe, <i>liqueurs</i> of
peach kernel, raspberry, black currant, anise, etc., for
daily use, completed the furnishing of the room.</p>

<p>The table was set for eight persons. A silver fork
and spoon, wrapped in a napkin, were placed at the left
of each plate, and a bottle of light wine at the right.
There was not a knife on the table during the serving of
the courses; each was already supplied with this useful
instrument, which only the Orientals know how to do
without. If the knife one affected was a clasp knife, it
was carried in the pocket; if a sheath-knife, it was worn
suspended from the neck in a case of morocco, of silk,
or even of birch-bark artistically wrought by the Indians.
The handles were usually of ivory riveted with
silver; those for the use of ladies were of mother-of-pearl.</p>

<p>To the right of each plate was a silver cup or goblet.
These cups were of different forms and sizes, some being
of simple pattern with or without hoops, some with
handles, some in the form of a chalice, some worked in
relief, and very many lined with gold.</p>

<p>A servant, placing on a side-table the customary appetizers,
namely, brandy for the men and sweet cordials
for the women, came to announce that the supper was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">78</a></span>
served. Eight persons sat down at the table&mdash;the Seigneur
de Beaumont and his wife; their sister, Madame
Descarrières; the old priest; Captain Marcheterre and
his son Henri; and lastly Archie and Jules. The lady
of the house gave the place of honor at her right to the
priest, and the next place, at her left, to the old captain.
The <i>menu</i> opened with an excellent soup (soup was then
<i>de rigueur</i> for dinner and supper alike), followed by a
cold pasty, called the Easter pasty, which, on account of
its immense proportions, was served on a great tray covered
with a napkin. This pasty, which would have
aroused the envy of Brillat-Savarin, consisted of one
turkey, two chickens, two partridges, two pigeons, the
backs and thighs of two rabbits, all larded with slices of
fat pork. The balls of force-meat on which rested, as on
a thick, soft bed, these gastronomic riches, were made of
two hams of that animal which the Jew despises, but
which the Christian treats with more regard. Large
onions scattered here and there and a liberal seasoning
of the finest spices completed the appetizing marvel.
But a very important point was the cooking, which was
beset with difficulty; for should the gigantic structure
be allowed to break, it would lose at least fifty per cent
of its flavor. To guard against so lamentable a catastrophe,
the lower crust, coming at least three inches up the
sides, was not less than an inch thick. This crust itself,
saturated with the juices of all the good things inside,
was one of the best parts of this unique dish.</p>

<p>Chickens and partridges roasted in slices of pork,
pigs feet <i>à la Sainte-Ménéhould</i>, a hare stew, very different
from that with which the Spanish landlord regaled
the unhappy Gil Blas&mdash;these were among the other
dishes which the seigneur set before his friends.</p>

<p>For a time there was silence with great appetites; but
when dessert was reached, the old sailor, who had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">79</a></span>
eating like a hungry wolf and drinking proportionately,
and all the time managing to keep his eyes on Archie,
was the first to break the silence.</p>

<p>"It would seem, young man," said he facetiously,
"that you are not much afraid of a cold in your head.
It would seem, also, that you don't really need to breathe
the air of heaven, and that, like your cousins the beaver
and otter, you only put your nose out of water every
half-hour, for form sake, and to see what's going on in
the upper world. You are a good deal like a salmon&mdash;when
one gives him line he knows how to profit by it.
It's my opinion, however, that gudgeons like you are
not found in every brook."</p>

<p>"It was only your presence of mind, captain," said
Archie, "your admirable judgment in letting out the exact
quantity of rope, that prevented me smashing my
head or my stomach on the ice; and but for you, poor
Dumais, instead of being warm in bed would now be
rolling under the St. Lawrence ice."</p>

<p>"A nice joke," cried Marcheterre; "to hear him
talk as if I had done the thing! It was very necessary
to give you line when I saw that you threatened to
stand on your head, which would have been a very uncomfortable
position in those waves. I wish to the d&mdash;Beg
pardon, your reverence, I was just going to swear; it
is a habit with us sailors."</p>

<p>"Nonsense," laughed the old priest, "you have been
accustomed to it so long, you old sinner, that one more
or less hardly matters; your record is full, and you no
longer keep count of them."</p>

<p>"When the tally-board is quite full, reverend father,"
said Marcheterre, "you shall just pass the plane over it,
as you have done so often before, and we'll run up another
score. Moreover, I am sure not to escape you,
for you know so well when and where to hook me and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">80</a></span>
drag me into a blessed harbor with the rest of the sinners."</p>

<p>"You are too severe, sir," said Jules. "How could
you wish to deprive our dear captain of the comfort of
swearing a little, if only against his darky cook, who
burns his fricassees as black as his own phiz?"</p>

<p>"You hair-brained young scoundrel," cried the captain
with a comical assumption of anger, "do you dare
talk to me so after the trick you played me?"</p>

<p>"I!" said Jules innocently, "I played you a trick?
I am incapable of it, dear captain. You are slandering
me cruelly."</p>

<p>"Just listen to the young saint!" said Marcheterre.
"I slandering him! No matter, let us drop the subject
for a moment. 'Lay to' for a bit, boy; I shall
know how to find you again soon. I was going to say,"
continued the captain, "when his reverence tumbled my
unfortunate exclamation to the bottom of the hold and
shut the hatch down on it, that if out of curiosity, Mr.
Archie, you had gone down to the foot of the fall, then,
like your <i>confrère</i> the salmon, you would probably have
shown us the trick of swimming up it again."</p>

<p>The spirit of mirth now ruled the conversation, and
in repartee and witticism the company found relief from
the intense emotions to which they had been subjected.</p>

<p>"Fill your glasses! Attention, everybody," cried the
Seigneur de Beaumont. "I am going to propose a
health which will, I am very sure, be received with acclamation."</p>

<p>"It is very easy for you to talk," said the old priest,
whom they had honored especially by giving him a goblet
richly carved, but holding nearly double what those
of the other guests could contain. "I am over ninety,
and I have no longer the hard head of a twenty-five year
old."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">81</a></span></p>

<p>"Come, my old friend," said the seigneur, "you will
not have far to go, for you must sleep here to-night.
Moreover, if your legs should become unsteady, it will
pass for the weakness of old age, and no one will be
shocked."</p>

<p>"You forget, seigneur," said the priest, laughing,
"that I have accepted your kind invitation to help take
care of poor Dumais to-night. I intend to sit up with
him. If I take too much wine, what use do you think
I could be to the poor fellow?"</p>

<p>"Indeed, you shall go to bed," said the seigneur.
"The master of the house decrees it. We will rouse
you in case of need. Have no anxiety as to Dumais
and his wife; their friend Mrs. Couture is with them.
I am even sending home, after they have supped, a lot
of their gossips and cronies, who wanted to be in the
way all night and use up the fresh air which the sick
man is so much in need of. We will all be up if necessary."</p>

<p>"You argue so well," answered the priest, "that I
must even do as you say," and he poured a fair quantity
of wine into his formidable cup.</p>

<p>Then the Seigneur de Beaumont said to Archie, with
solemn emphasis: "What you have done is beyond all
praise. I know not which is most admirable, the splendid
spirit of self-sacrifice which moved you to risk your
life for that of a stranger, or the courage and coolness
which enabled you to succeed. You possess all the
qualities most requisite to the career you are to follow.
A soldier myself, I prophesy great success for you. Let
us drink to the health of Mr. de Lochiel!"</p>

<p>The toast was drunk with ardent enthusiasm.</p>

<p>In returning thanks, Archie said modestly:</p>

<p>"I am bewildered by so much praise for so simple a
performance. I was probably the only one present who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">82</a></span>
knew how to swim; for any one else would have done
as I did. It is claimed that your Indian women throw
their infants into the water and let them make the best
of their way to shore; this teaches them to swim very
early. I am tempted to believe that our mothers in the
Scottish Highlands follow the same excellent custom.
As long as I can remember I have been a swimmer."</p>

<p>"At your fooling again, Mr. Archie," said the captain.
"As for me, I have been a sailor these fifty years,
and I have never yet learned how to swim. Not that I
have never fallen into the water, but I have always had
the good luck to catch hold of something. Failing that,
I always kept my feet going, as cats and dogs do.
Sooner or later some one always hauled me out; and
here I am.</p>

<p>"That reminds me of a little adventure which happened
to me when I was a sailor. My ship was anchored
by the banks of the Mississippi. It might have been
about nine o'clock in the evening, after one of those suffocating
days which one can experience only in the
tropics. I had made my bed up in the bows of my ship,
in order to enjoy the evening breezes. But for the <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'musquitoes'">mosquitoes</ins>,
the sand flies, the black flies, and the infernal
noise of the alligators, which had gathered, I think,
from the utmost limits of the Father of Streams to give
me a good serenading, a monarch of the East might
have envied me my bed. I am not naturally timid, but
I have an unconquerable horror of all kinds of reptiles,
whether they crawl on land or wriggle in the water."</p>

<p>"Captain, you have a refined and aristocratic taste
which does you much honor," said Jules.</p>

<p>"Do you dare to speak to me again, you disreputable,"
cried Marcheterre, shaking his great fist at him. I
was about forgetting you, but your turn will come very
soon. Meanwhile, I go on with my story. I was feeling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">83</a></span>
very safe and comfortable on my mat, whence I could
hear the hungry monsters snapping their jaws. I derided
them, saying: 'You would be delighted, my lambs,
to make a meal off my carcass, but there's one little
difficulty in the way of it; though you should have to
fast all your lives through like hermits I would never be the
one to break your fasting, for my conscience is too tender.'</p>

<p>"I don't know exactly how the thing happened, but
I ended by falling asleep, and when I awoke I was in
the midst of these jolly companions. You could never
imagine the horror that seized me, in spite of my customary
coolness. I did not lose my presence of mind,
however. While under water I remembered that there
was a rope hanging from the bowsprit. As I came to
the surface I had the good fortune to catch it. I was
as active as a monkey in those days; but I did not
escape without leaving as a keepsake in the throat of a
very barbarous alligator one of my boots and a valued
portion of the calf of my leg.</p>

<p>"Now for your turn, you imp," continued the captain,
turning to Jules. "I must get even with you, sooner
or later, for the trick you played me. On my return
from Martinique last year, I met monsieur one morning
in Quebec Lower Town as he was on the point of crossing
the river to return home for his vacation. After a
perfect squall of embraces, from which I escaped with
difficulty by sheering off to larboard, I commissioned
him to tell my family of my arrival, and to say that I
could not be at St. Thomas for several days. What did
this young saint do? He went to my house at eight
o'clock in the evening, shouting, like all possessed: 'Oh,
joy! oh, rapture! Three cheers and a tiger!'</p>

<p>"'My husband has come!' exclaimed Madame
Marcheterre. 'Father has come!' cried my two daughters.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">84</a></span></p>

<p>"'Certainly,' said he; 'what else could I be making
all this fuss about?'</p>

<p>"Then he kissed my good wife&mdash;there was no great
difficulty in that. He wanted to kiss the girls, too, but
they boxed his ears and sheered off with all sails set.
What does your reverence think of this for a beginning,
to say nothing of what followed?"</p>

<p>"Ah, Mr. Jules," cried the old priest, "these are
nice things I am hearing about you. Queer conduct this
for a pupil of the Jesuit fathers."</p>

<p>"You see, Mr. Abbé," said Jules, "that all that was
only a bit of fun to enable me to share the happiness of
that estimable family. I knew too well the ferocious
virtue, immovable as the Cape of Storms, of these daughters
of the sea. I well knew that they would box my
ears soundly and sheer off with all sails set."</p>

<p>"I begin to believe that you are telling the truth,
after all," said the old priest, "and that there were no
evil designs on your part. I know my Jules pretty thoroughly."</p>

<p>"Worse and more of it," said the captain. "Take
his part, do; that's all he was wanting. But we'll see
what you think when you hear the rest. When my young
gentleman had finished his larking, he said to my wife:
'The captain told me to say he would be here to-morrow
evening, in the neighborhood of ten o'clock, and
that, as his business had prospered exceedingly (which,
indeed, was all true), he wished that his friends should
celebrate his good luck with him. He wished that there
should be a ball and supper going on at his house when
he arrived, which would be just as the guests were sitting
down to table. Make ready, therefore, for this
celebration, to which he has invited myself and my
brother de Lochiel. This puts me out a little,' added
the young hypocrite, 'for I am in a great hurry to get<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">85</a></span>
home, but for you ladies there is nothing that I would
not do.'</p>

<p>"'My husband does not consider that he is giving
me too little time,' said Madame Marcheterre. 'We
have no market here. My cook is very old to undertake
so much in one day. The case is desperate, but
to please him we must accomplish the impossible.'</p>

<p>"'Perhaps I can be of some use to you,' said the
hypocrite, pretending to sympathize with her. 'I will
undertake with pleasure to send out the invitations.'</p>

<p>"'My dear Jules,' said my wife, 'that would be the
greatest help. You know our society. I give you <i>carte
blanche</i>.'</p>

<p>"My wife ran all over the parish to get provisions
for the feast. She and the girls spent the greater part
of the night helping the old cook make pastries, whipped
creams, blanc-mange, biscuits, and a lot of sweet stuff
that I wouldn't give for one steak of fresh codfish, such
as one gets on the Banks of Newfoundland. Mr. Jules,
for his part, did things up in style. That night he sent
out two messengers, one to the northeast, the other to the
southwest, carrying invitations; so that by six o'clock
the next evening, thanks to his good management, my
house was full of guests, who were whirling around like
so many gulls, while I was anchored in Quebec, and
poor madame, in spite of a frightful cold, was doing the
honors of the house with the best grace possible. What
do you think, gentlemen, of a trick like that; and what
have you to say in your defense, you wolf in sheep's
clothing?"</p>

<p>"I wished," said Jules, "that everybody should share
beforehand in the joy of the family over the good fortune
of so dear and so generous a friend. Also, if you
could have seen the regret and general consternation
when, toward eleven o'clock, it was found necessary to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">86</a></span>
sit down at table without waiting for you any longer,
you would certainly have been moved to tears. The
morrow, you will remember, was a fast day. As for
your wife, she seems to be without the smallest idea of
gratitude. Observing, a little before eleven, that she
was in no hurry to bring on the supper, and that she
was beginning to be anxious about her dear husband, I
whispered a word in her ear, and for thanks she broke
her fan over my back."</p>

<p>Everybody, the captain himself included, burst out
laughing.</p>

<p>"How is it you never told us of this before, Marcheterre?"
said the Seigneur de Beaumont.</p>

<p>"It was hardly necessary," said the captain, "to publish
it to the world that we had been tricked by this
young rascal. Moreover, it would have been no particular
satisfaction to us to inform you that you owed the
entertainment to the munificence of Mr. Jules D'Haberville;
we preferred to have the credit of it ourselves.
I only tell it to you to-day because it is too good to
keep any longer."</p>

<p>"It seems to me, Mr. Diver," continued Marcheterre,
addressing Archie, "that, in spite of your reserved
and philosophical demeanor, you were an accomplice of
Master Jules."</p>

<p>"I give you my word," replied Lochiel, "that I
knew nothing of it whatever. Not till the next day did
Jules take me into his confidence, whereupon I gave
him a good scolding."</p>

<p>"You could hardly say much," said Jules, "after the
rate at which you kicked round your great Scotch legs
with great peril to the more civilized shins of your neighbors.
You have doubtless forgotten that, since you
were not content with French cotillons, such as are accepted
among all civilized people, to please you we had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">87</a></span>
to have Scotch reels. The music for these our fiddler
picked up by ear in an instant. It was a very simple
matter; he merely had to scrape his strings till they
screeched as if a lot of cats were shut up in a bag and
some one were pulling their tails."</p>

<p>"Oh, you are a bad lot," said the captain; "but
won't you come and take supper with us to-morrow,
you and your friend, and make your peace with the
family?"</p>

<p>"That's the way to talk, now!" said Jules.</p>

<p>"Listen to the irrepressible," retorted Marcheterre.</p>

<p>As it was now very late, the party broke up, after
drinking the health of the old sailor and his son and
pronouncing the eulogies they deserved for the part
they had played that night.</p>

<p>The young men had to stay some days at St. Thomas.
The flood continued. The roads were deluged.
The nearest bridge, even supposing it had escaped the
general disaster, was some leagues southwest of the village,
and the rain came down in torrents. They were
obliged to wait till the river should be clear of ice, so as
to cross in a boat below the falls. They divided their
time between the seigneur's family, their other friends,
and poor Dumais, whom the seigneur would not permit
to be moved. The sick man entertained them with
stories of his fights against the English and their savage
allies, and with accounts of the manners and customs of
the aborigines.</p>

<p>"Although I am a native of St. Thomas," said Dumais
one day, "I was brought up in the parish of Sorel.
When I was ten years old and my brother nine, while we
were in the woods one day picking raspberries a party of
Iroquois surprised and captured us. After a long march,
we came to the place where their canoe was hidden
among the brambles by the water's edge; and they took<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">88</a></span>
us to one of the islands of the St. Lawrence. My father
and his three brothers, armed to the teeth, set out to
rescue us. They were only four against ten; but I
may say without boasting that my father and my uncles
were not exactly the kind of men to be trifled with.
They were tall, broad-chested fellows, with their shoulders
well set back.</p>

<p>"It might have been about ten o'clock in the evening.
My brother and I, surrounded by our captors, were
seated in a little clearing in the midst of thick woods,
when we heard my father's voice shouting to us: 'Lie
flat down on your stomachs.' I immediately seized my
little brother around the neck and flattened him down
to the ground with me. The Iroquois were hardly on
their feet when four well-aimed shots rang out and four
of the band fell squirming like eels. The rest of the
vermin, not wishing, I suppose, to fire at hazard against
the invisible enemies to whom they were serving as targets,
started for the shelter of the trees; but our rescuers
gave them no time. Falling upon them with the butts
of their muskets, they beat down three at the first charge,
and the others saved themselves by flight. Our mother
almost died of joy when we were given back to her
arms."</p>

<p>In return, Lochiel told the poor fellow about the
combats of the Scottish Highlanders, their manners and
customs, and the semi-fabulous exploits of his hero, the
great Wallace; while Jules amused him with the story
of his practical jokes, or with such bits of history as he
might appreciate.</p>

<p>When the young men were bidding Dumais farewell,
the latter said to Archie with tears in his eyes:</p>

<p>"It is probable, sir, that I shall never see you again,
but be sure that I will carry you ever in my heart, and
will pray for you, I and my family, every day of our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">89</a></span>
lives. It is painful for me to think that even should you
return to New France, a poor man like me would have
no means of displaying his gratitude."</p>

<p>"Who knows," said Lochiel, "perhaps you will do
more for me than I have done for you."</p>

<p>Was the Highlander gifted with that second sight of
which his fellow-countrymen are wont to boast? Let us
judge from the sequel.</p>

<p>On the 30th day of April, at ten o'clock in the morning,
with weather magnificent but roads altogether execrable,
our travelers bade farewell to their friends at St.
Thomas. They had yet six leagues to go before arriving
at St. Jean-Port-Joli, and the whole distance they
had to travel afoot, cursing at the rain which had removed
the last traces of ice and snow. In traversing
the road across the plain of Cape St. Ignace it was even
worse. They sank to their knees, and their horse was
mired to the belly and had to be dug out. Jules, the
most impatient of the three, kept grumbling:</p>

<p>"If I had had anything to do with the weather we
would never have had this devil of a rain which has
turned all the roads into bogholes."</p>

<p>Perceiving that José shook his head whenever he
heard this remark, he asked him what he meant.</p>

<p>"Oh, Master Jules," said José, "I am only a poor
ignorant fellow, but I can't help thinking that if you
had charge of the weather we shouldn't be much
better off. Take the case of what happened to Davy
Larouche."</p>

<p>"When we get across this cursed boghole," said
Jules, "you shall tell us the story of Davy Larouche.
Oh, that I had the legs of a heron, like this haughty
Scotchman who strides before us whistling a pibroch
just fit for these roads."</p>

<p>"What would you give," said Archie, "to exchange<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">90</a></span>
your diminutive French legs for those of the haughty
Highlander?"</p>

<p>"Keep your legs," retorted Jules, "for when you
have to run away from the enemy."</p>

<p>Once well across the meadow, the young men asked
José for his story.</p>

<p>"I must tell you," said the latter, "that a fellow
named Davy Larouche once lived in the parish of St.
Roch. He was a good enough provider, neither very
rich nor very poor. I used to think that the dear fellow
was not quite sharp enough, which prevented him making
great headway in the world.</p>

<p>"It happened that one morning Davy got up earlier
than usual, put through his chores in the stable, returned
to the house, fixed his whiskers as if it were Sunday,
and got himself up in his best clothes.</p>

<p>"'Where are you going, my good man?' asked his
wife. 'What a swell you are! Are you going to see
the girls?'</p>

<p>"You must understand that this was a joke of hers;
she knew that her husband was bashful with women, and
not at all inclined to run after them. As for La Thèque
herself, she was the most facetious little body on the
whole south side, inheriting it from her old Uncle Bernuchon
Castonguay. She often used to say, pointing to
her husband, 'You see that great fool yonder?' Certainly
not a very polite way to speak of her husband.
'Well, he would never have had the pluck to ask me in
marriage, though I was the prettiest girl in the parish, if
I had not met him more than half-way. Yet, how his
eyes used to shine whenever he saw me! I took pity
on him, because he wasn't making much progress. To
be sure, I was even more anxious about it than he; he
had four good acres of land to his name, while I had
nothing but this fair body of mine.'</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">91</a></span></p>

<p>"She was lying a little to be sure, the puss," added
José. "She had a cow, a yearling bull, six sheep, her
spinning-wheel, a box so full of clothes that you had to
kneel on it to shut it, and in the box fifty silver francs.</p>

<p>"'I took pity on him one evening,' said she, 'when
he called at our house and sat in the corner without
even daring to speak to me. "I know you are in love
with me, you great simpleton," said I. "Go and speak to
my father, who is waiting for you in the next room, and
you can get the banns published next Sunday." Moreover,
since he sat there without budging and as red as a
turkey-cock, I took him by the shoulders and pushed
him into the other room. My father opened a closet
and brought out a flask of brandy to encourage him.
Well, in spite of all these hints, he had to get three
drinks into his body before he found his tongue.'</p>

<p>"Well, as I was saying," continued José, "La Thèque
said to her husband: 'Are you going to see the girls,
my man? Look out for yourself! If you get off any
pranks I will let you into the soup.'</p>

<p>"'You know very well I'm not,' said Larouche
laughingly, and flicking her on the back with his whip.
'Here we are at the end of March, my grain is all thrashed
out, and I'm going to carry my tithes to the priest.'</p>

<p>"'That's right, my man,' said his wife, who was a
good Christian; 'we must render back to God a share
of what he has just given us.'</p>

<p>"Larouche then threw his sacks upon the sled, lit
his pipe with a hot coal, sprang aboard, and set off in
high spirits.</p>

<p>"As he was passing a bit of woods he met a traveler,
who approached by a side path.</p>

<p>"This stranger was a tall, handsome man of about
thirty. Long fair hair fell about his shoulders, his blue
eyes were as sweet as an angel's, and his countenance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">92</a></span>
wore a sort of tender sadness. His dress was a long
blue robe tied at the waist. Larouche said he had never
seen any one so beautiful as this stranger, and that the
loveliest woman was ugly in comparison.</p>

<p>"'Peace be with you, my brother,' said the traveler.</p>

<p>"'I thank you for your good wishes,' answered
Davy; 'a good word burns nobody's mouth. But that
is something I don't particularly need. I am at peace,
thank God, with everybody. I have an excellent wife,
good children, we get on well together, all my neighbors
love me. I have nothing to desire in the way of peace.'</p>

<p>"'I congratulate you,' said the traveler. 'Your sled
is well loaded; where are you going this morning?'</p>

<p>"'It is my tithes which I am taking to the priest.'</p>

<p>"'It would seem, then,' said the stranger, 'that you
have had a good harvest, reckoning one measure of
tithes to every twenty-six measures of clean grain.'</p>

<p>"'Good enough, I confess; but if I had had the
weather just to my fancy it would have been something
very much better.'</p>

<p>"'You think so,' said the traveler.</p>

<p>"'No manner of doubt of it,' answered Davy.</p>

<p>"'Very well,' said the stranger; 'now you shall have
just what weather you wish, and much good may it do
you.'</p>

<p>"Having spoken thus, he disappeared around the
foot of a little hill.</p>

<p>"'That's queer now,' thought Davy. 'I know very
well that there are wicked people who go about the
world putting spells on men, women, children, or animals.
Take the case of the woman, Lestin Coulombe,
who, on the very day of her wedding, made fun of a
certain beggar who squinted in his left eye. She had
good cause to regret it, poor thing; for he said to her
angrily: "Take care, young woman, that your own children<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">93</a></span>
don't turn out cross-eyed." She trembled, poor
creature, for every child she brought into the world, and
not without good cause; for the fourteenth, when looked
at closely, showed a blemish on its right eye.'"</p>

<p>"It seems to me," said Jules, "that Madame Lestin
must have had a mighty dread of cross-eyed children if
she could not be content to present her dear husband
with one even after twenty years of married life. Evidently
she was a thoughtful and easy-going woman, who
took her time about whatever she was going to do."</p>

<p>José shook his head with a dubious air and continued:</p>

<p>"'Well,' thought Larouche to himself, 'though bad
folk go about the country putting spells on people, I
have never heard of saints wandering around Canada to
work miracles. After all, it is no business of mine. I
won't say a word about it, and we'll see next spring.'</p>

<p>"About that time the next year Davy, very much
ashamed of himself, got up secretly, long before daylight,
to take his tithes to the priest. He had no need
of horse or sleigh. He carried the whole thing in his
handkerchief.</p>

<p>"As the sun was rising he once more met the stranger,
who said to him:</p>

<p>"'Peace be with you, my brother!'</p>

<p>"'Never was wish more appropriate,' answered Larouche,
'for I believe the devil himself has got into my
house, and is kicking up his pranks there day and night.
My wife scolds me to death from morn till eve, my children
sulk when they are not doing worse, and all my
neighbors are set against me.'</p>

<p>"'I am very sorry to hear it,' said the traveler, 'but
what are you carrying in that little parcel?'</p>

<p>"'My tithes,' answered Larouche, with an air of
chagrin.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">94</a></span></p>

<p>"'It seems to me, however,' said the stranger, 'that
you have been having just the weather you asked for.'</p>

<p>"'I acknowledge it,' said Davy. 'When I asked for
sunshine, I had it; when I wanted rain, wind, calm
weather, I got them; yet nothing has succeeded with
me. The sun burned up the grain, the rain caused it to
rot, the wind beat it down, the calm brought the night
frosts. My neighbors are all bitter against me; they regard
me as a sorcerer, who has brought a curse on their
harvests. My wife began by distrusting me, and has
ended by heaping me with reproaches. In a word, it is
enough to drive one crazy.'</p>

<p>"'Which proves to you, my brother,' said the traveler,
'that your wish was a foolish one; that one must
always trust to the providence of God, who knows what
is good for man better than man can know it for himself.
Put your trust in him, and you will not have to endure
the humiliation of having to carry your tithes in a handkerchief.'</p>

<p>"With these words, the stranger again disappeared
around the hill.</p>

<p>"Larouche took the hint, and thenceforth acknowledged
God's providence, without wishing to meddle
with the weather."</p>

<p>As José brought his tale to an end, Archie said: "I
like exceedingly the simplicity of this legend. It has a
lofty moral, and at the same time it displays the vivid
faith of the <i>habitants</i> of New France. Shame on the
heartless philosopher who would deprive them of that
whence they derive so many a consolation in the trials
of life!</p>

<p>"It must be confessed," continued Archie later,
when they were at a little distance from the sleigh, "that
our friend José has always an appropriate story ready;
but do you believe that his father really told him that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">95</a></span>
marvelous dream that was dreamed on the hillsides of
St. Michel?"</p>

<p>"I perceive," said Jules, "that you do not yet know
José's talents; he is an inexhaustible <i>raconteur</i>. The
neighbors gather in our kitchen on the long winter evenings,
and José spins them a story which often goes on
for weeks. When he feels his imagination beginning to
flag he breaks off, and says: 'I'm getting tired; I'll tell
you the rest another day.'</p>

<p>"José is also a much more highly esteemed poet than
my learned uncle the chevalier, who prides himself on
his skill in verse. He never fails to sacrifice to the
Muses either on flesh days or on New Year's Day. If
you were at my father's house at such times, you would
see messengers arrive from all parts of the parish in
quest of José's compositions."</p>

<p>"But he does not know how to write," said Archie.</p>

<p>"No more do his audience know how to read," replied
Jules. "This is how they work it. They send
to the poet a good chanter (<i>chanteux</i>), as they call
him, who has a prodigious memory; and, presto! inside
of half an hour said chanter has the whole poem in
his head. For any sorrowful occasion José is asked to
compose a lament; and if it be an occasion of mirth he
is certain to be in demand. That reminds me of what
happened to a poor devil of a lover who had taken his
sweetheart to a ball without being invited. Although
unexpected, they were received with politeness, but the
young man was so awkward as to trip the daughter of
the house while dancing, which raised a shout of laughter
from all the company. The young girl's father, being
a rough fellow and very angry at the accident, took
poor José Blais by the shoulders and put him out of
the house. Then he made all manner of excuses to the
poor girl whose lover had been so unceremoniously dismissed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">96</a></span>
and would not permit her to leave. On hearing
of this, our friend José yonder was seized with an inspiration,
and improvised the following naïve bit of verse:</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"A party after vespers at the house of old Boulé;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But the lads that couldn't dance were asked to stay away:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton de ritaine, mon ton ton de rité.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"The lads that couldn't dance were asked to stay away,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But his heart was set on going, was the heart of José Blai:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton, etc.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">His heart was set on going, was the heart of José Blai.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">'Get done your chores,' said his mistress, 'and I will not say you<br /></span>
<span class="i4">nay':<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton, etc.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"'Get done your chores,' said his mistress, 'and I will not say you<br /></span>
<span class="i6">nay':<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So he hurried out to the barn to give the cows their hay:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton, etc.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"He hurried out to the barn to give the cows their hay.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He rapped Rougett' on the nose, and on the ribs Barré:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton, etc.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"He rapped Rougett' on the nose, and on the ribs Barré,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And then rubbed down the horses in the quickest kind of way:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton, etc.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"He rubbed down the horses in the quickest kind of way;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then dressed him in his vest of red and coat of blue and gray:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton, etc.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"He dressed him in his vest of red and coat of blue and gray,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And black cravat, and shoes for which he had to pay:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton, etc.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"His black cravat, and shoes for which he had to pay;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And he took his dear Lizett', so proud of his display:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton, etc.<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"He took his dear Lizett', so proud of his display;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But they kicked him out to learn to dance, and call another day:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton, etc.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">97</a></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"They kicked him out to learn to dance, and call another day;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But they kept his dear Lizett', his pretty <i>fiancée</i>:<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Mon ton ton de ritaine, mon ton ton de rité."<br /></span>
</div>
</div></div>

<p>"Why, it is a charming little idyl!" cried Archie,
laughing. "What a pity José had not an education!
Canada would possess one poet the more."</p>

<p>"But to return to the experiences of his late father,"
said Jules, "I believe that the old drunkard, after having
dared La Corriveau (a thing which the <i>habitants</i> consider
very foolhardy, as the dead are sure to avenge themselves,
sooner or later)&mdash;I believe the old drunkard fell
asleep in the ditch just opposite Isle d'Orléans, where
the <i>habitants</i> traveling by night always think they see
witches; I believe also that he suffered a terrible nightmare,
during which he thought himself attacked by the
goblins of the island on the one hand and by La Corriveau
on the other. José's vivid imagination has supplied
the rest, for you see how he turns everything to
account&mdash;the pictures in your natural history, for instance,
and the Cyclopes in my uncle's illustrated Virgil,
of which his dear late father had doubtless never
heard a word. Poor José! How sorry I am for the
way I abused him the other day. I knew nothing of it
until the day following, for I had entirely lost my senses
on seeing you disappear in the flood. I begged his pardon
very humbly, and he answered: 'What! are you
still thinking about that trifle? Why, I look back upon
it with pleasure now all the racket is over. It made me
even feel young again, reminding me of your furies when
you were a youngster&mdash;when you would scratch and bite
like a little wild cat, and when I would carry you off in
my arms to save you from the punishment of your parents.
How you used to cry! And then, when your
anger was over, you would bring me your playthings to
console me."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">98</a></span></p>

<p>"Faithful José! what unswerving attachment to our
family through every trial! Men with hearts as dry as
tinder often look with scorn on such people as José,
though possessed of none of their virtues. A noble
heart is the best gift of God to man."</p>

<p>As our travelers drew near the manor house of St.
Jean-Port-Joli, whose roof they could see under the
starlight, the conversation of Jules D'Haberville, ordinarily
so frivolous and mocking, grew more and more
thoughtful and sincere.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">99</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">D'HABERVILLE MANOR HOUSE.</span></h2>
</div>

<blockquote>
<p>Je bénis le soleil, je bénis la lune et les astres qui étoilent le ciel. Je
bénis aussi les petits oiseaux qui gazouillent dans l'air.</p>

<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Henri Heine.</span><br /></p>

</blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">D'haberville Manor House</span> was situated at the
foot of a bluff which covered about nine acres of the
seigniory, on the south side of the highway. This bluff
was about a hundred feet high and very picturesque.
Its summit was clothed with pines and firs, whose perpetual
green formed a cheerful contrast with the desolation
of the winter landscape. Jules D'Haberville used
to compare these trees, triumphing on their height and
flaunting their fadeless green in the face of the harshest
seasons, to the mighty ones of the earth whose strength
and happiness are beyond the reach of vicissitude, however
much the poor may shiver at their feet.</p>

<p>One might well believe that the brush of a Claude
Lorraine had exercised itself in adorning the flanks and
base of this hill, so endless was the variety of the trees
which had gathered thither from all the neighboring
woodlands. Elm, maple, birch, and beech, red thorn,
cherry, ash, and cedar, sumach, and all the other native
trees which are the glory of our forests, combined to
throw a cloak of all imaginable greens over the rugged
outlines of the bluff.</p>

<p>A wood of ancient maples covered the space between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">100</a></span>
the foot of the bluff and the highway, which was bordered
with hedges of hazel and cinnamon rose.</p>

<p>The first object to attract the eye on approaching
the manor house was a brook, which, falling through the
trees in a succession of foamy cascades down the southwest
slope of the hill, mingled its clear current with that
of a fountain which burst forth some distance below.
After winding and loitering through a breadth of
meadow country, the wedded streams slipped reluctantly
into the St. Lawrence.</p>

<p>The spring, bubbling from the very heart of the hill
into a basin cut from the living rock, preserves its icy
coolness, its crystal purity, through the fiercest heats of
summer. It was inclosed in those days in a little white-washed
pavilion, thick shaded by a group of ancient
trees. The seats arranged within and without this cool
retreat, the cone-shaped drinking-cups of birch bark
hanging on the wall, served as so many invitations from
the nymph of the fount to wayfarers oppressed by the
dog-star.</p>

<p>Fresh as of old, to this day the hill-top keeps its
crown of emerald, the slope preserves its varied verdure;
but of the ancient grove there remain but five gnarled
maples. These trees, decaying little by little beneath
the touch of time, like the closing years of the master
of the domain, appear almost like a visible and ceaseless
prophecy that his life will fade out with that of the
last veteran of the grove. When the last log shall have
been consumed in warming the old man's frozen limbs,
its ashes will mingle with his own&mdash;a grim admonition,
like that of the priest on Ash Wednesday: "Memento,
homo, quia pulvis es, ut in pulverem reverteris."</p>

<p>The manor house, situated between the river St.
Lawrence and the bluff, was divided from the water only
by the highway, the grove, and a spacious yard. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">101</a></span>
a one-storied structure with high gables, about a hundred
feet long, with two wings of fifty feet. A bake-house,
built into the northeast corner of the kitchen,
served also the purpose of a laundry. A small attachment,
adjoining the great drawing-room on the southwest,
gave symmetry to the proportions of this piece of
early Canadian architecture.</p>

<p>Two other small buildings at the southeast served,
the one for a dairy, the other for a second wash-house.
This wash-house stood over a well, which was connected
by a long trough with the kitchen of the main building.
Coach-houses, barns, stables, five small sheds (three of
them standing in the grove), a kitchen garden to the
southwest of the manor house, two orchards on the north
and northeast, respectively&mdash;all these went to make up
the establishment of one of the old French Canadian
seigneurs. The <i>habitants</i> called the establishment "le
village D'Haberville."</p>

<p>Sitting on the crest of the bluff, it mattered little in
what direction one allowed his gaze to wander. Immediately
below the little village, <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'dazzingly'">dazzlingly</ins> white, appeared
to spring from the green bosom of the meadows. On
all sides a panorama of splendid magnificence unrolled
itself. There was the sovereign of streams, already seven
leagues in width, confined on the north by the ancient
barrier of Laurentians, whose feet it washes, and whose
peopled slopes are in view from Cape Tourmente to Malbaie;
yonder, to the west, <i>Ile aux Oies</i> and <i>Ile aux
Grues</i>; right in front, the Piliers Islands, one of which
is as arid as the <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'Ææan'">Ægean</ins> rock of Circe, the other always
green, like the Ogygian paradise of Calypso; northward,
the reefs and shoals of the Loups-Marins, so dear to
Canadian hunters; and, lastly, the hamlets of l'Islet and
St. Jean-Port-Joli, crowned with their gleaming spires.</p>

<p>It was nearly nine in the evening when the young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">102</a></span>
men arrived on the slope overlooking the manor. At
the first glimpse of the scene which recalled the happiest
days of his existence, Jules paused and exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Never have I approached this home of my ancestors
without being deeply impressed. Let them boast
as they will the scenes of beauty or sublimity which
abound in our fair Canada, among them all there is but
one for me, this spot where I was born, where I passed
my childhood under such tender cherishing! I used to
think the days too short for my childish sports. I rose
at dawn, I dressed in haste, my thirst for my enjoyments
was feverish and unfailing.</p>

<p>"I love everything about us. I love the moon which
you see climbing over the wooded crest of the bluff; nowhere
else does she appear to me so beautiful. I love
yonder brook which used to turn my little water mills.
I love the fountain which refreshed me in the August
heats.</p>

<p>"Yonder my mother used to sit," continued Jules,
pointing out a mossy rock in the shadow of two great
beeches. "Thither I used to bring her in my little silver
cup the ice-cool water from the spring. Ah! how
often this tender mother, watching by my pillow, or
awakened suddenly by my cries, brought me that same
cup filled with sweet milk! And to think that I must
leave all this&mdash;perhaps forever! O mother, mother!"</p>

<p>Jules burst into tears.</p>

<p>Lochiel, much moved, grasped his friend's hand and
answered:</p>

<p>"You will come back again, my brother. You will
come back, bringing glory and good fortune to your
family."</p>

<p>"Thank you, dear old boy," said Jules, "but let us
hurry on. The greetings of my parents will soon scatter
this little cloud."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">103</a></span></p>

<p>Archie, who had never before visited the country in
spring-time, wished to know the meaning of those white
objects which he saw at the dusky foot of every maple.</p>

<p>"Those are the three-cornered spouts," said Jules,
"which catch the sap for making sugar. The sugar-maker
cuts a notch in the tree and right beneath it he
drives in one of these affairs."</p>

<p>"One might almost say," replied Archie, "that these
trees were vast water-pipes, with their funnels ready to
supply a crowded city."</p>

<p>He was interrupted by the barking of a great dog,
which came running to meet them.</p>

<p>"Niger! Niger!" shouted Jules. At the sound of
the well-loved voice the dog paused, then ran up and
snuffed at his master to assure himself of his identity.
He returned Jules's caresses with a howling half joyous,
half plaintive, which expressed his love as well as words
could have done.</p>

<p>"Ah, poor Niger," said Jules, "I understand your
language perfectly. It is half a reproach to me for having
stayed away from you so long, and it is half delight
at seeing me again, with forgiveness of my neglect. Poor
Niger, when I come again after my long, long journey,
you will not even have the happiness that was granted
to the faithful hound of Ulysses, of dying at your master's
feet."</p>

<p>The reader is doubtless ready by this time to make
the acquaintance of the D'Haberville family. Let me
introduce them according to their rank in the domestic
hierarchy:</p>

<p>The Seigneur D'Haberville was scarcely forty-five
years old, but the toils of war had so told on his constitution
that he looked a good ten years older. His duties
as captain in the Colonial Marine kept him constantly
under arms. The ceaseless forest warfare, with no shelter,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">104</a></span>
according to the stern Canadian custom, except the
vault of heaven, the expeditions of reconnoissance or
surprise against the Iroquois or against the English settlements,
carried on during the severest weather, produced
their speedy effect on the strongest frames.</p>

<p>Captain D'Haberville might fairly have been called
handsome. A little below the medium height, his regular
features, his vivid complexion, his great black eyes
which softened at will but whose intensity when aroused
few men could face, the simple elegance of his manners,
all combined to give him an air of extreme distinction.
A severe critic might perhaps have found fault with the
great length and thickness of his black eyebrows.</p>

<p>As to character, the Seigneur D'Haberville was possessed
of all those qualities which distinguished the early
Canadians of noble birth. It is true, on the other hand,
that he might fairly have been charged with vindictiveness.
An injury, real or supposed, he found it hard to
forgive.</p>

<p>Madame D'Haberville, a devout and gentle woman
of thirty-six, was endowed with that mature beauty
which men often prefer to the freshness of youth.
Blonde and of medium height, her countenance was of
an angelic sweetness. Her sole object seemed to be the
happiness of those about her. The <i>habitants</i>, in their
simple way, used to call her "the perfect lady."</p>

<p>Mademoiselle Blanche D'Haberville, younger than
her brother Jules, was the image of her mother, but of a
somewhat graver temperament. Wise beyond her years,
she had a great influence over her brother, whose outbursts
she often checked with one imploring glance.
While apparently absorbed in her own thoughts, the girl
was capable, on occasion, of acting with energy and
effect.</p>

<p>Madame Louise de Beaumont, younger sister of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">105</a></span>
Madame D'Haberville, had lived with her ever since her
marriage. Though rich and independent, she was altogether
devoted to her sister's family. Sharing their happiness,
she was equally ready to share, should need
arise, the utmost that adversity could bring upon them.</p>

<p>Lieutenant Raoul D'Haberville, or rather the Chevalier
D'Haberville, whom everybody called Uncle Raoul,
was a younger brother of the captain by two years. He
looked fully ten years his senior. A little man was Uncle
Raoul, almost as broad as he was long, and walking with
the assistance of a stick; he would have been remarkably
ugly even if the small-pox could have been induced
to spare his countenance. It is hard to say how he came
by his nickname. One may say of a man, he has a paternal
air, he is <i>un petit père</i>; but one accuses nobody of
having an avuncular appearance. For all that, Lieutenant
D'Haberville was everybody's uncle. Even his
soldiers, unknown to him, used to call him Uncle Raoul.
In like manner, to compare great things with small, Napoleon
was to the grumblers merely "the little corporal."</p>

<p>Uncle Raoul was the <i>littérateur</i> of the D'Haberville
family, and, therefore, something of a pedant, like almost
all men who live in daily contact with people less
learned than themselves. Uncle Raoul was the best
fellow in the world when he had his own way; but he
had one little defect. He held the profound conviction
that he was always right, which made him very bad tempered
with any who might dare to differ with him.</p>

<p>Uncle Raoul prided himself on his knowledge of
Latin, fragments of which language he was wont to
launch freely at the heads of cultured and ignorant
alike. Endless were his discussions with the curé over
some line of Horace, Ovid, or Virgil, who were his favorite
authors. The curé, who was of a mild and peaceable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">106</a></span>
humor, almost always grew weary of the contest
and gave way before his fiery opponent. But Uncle
Raoul also prided himself on being a profound theologian,
which was the cause of much embarrassment to
the poor curé. The latter was deeply concerned for the
soul of his friend, who had been in his youth a rather
risky subject, and whom he had had great difficulty in
leading into better courses. He found it necessary,
however, sometimes to give way on points not absolutely
essential to the safety of Uncle Raoul's soul. When
points were attacked which he durst not yield he was
wont to call in the aid of Blanche, whom her uncle idolized.</p>

<p>"Dear uncle," she would say to him with a caress,
"are you not already learned enough without encroaching
on the field of our good pastor? You are victorious
on all the other points under discussion," she would add,
with a sly glance at the curé; "be generous, then, and
suffer yourself to be convinced on those points which are
the especial province of God's ministers."</p>

<p>Thereupon, as Uncle Raoul argued simply for the
pleasure of argument, a peace would be concluded between
the disputants.</p>

<p>Uncle Raoul was by no means the least important
personage at D'Haberville manor. Since his retirement
from the army, the captain, whom military service kept
much away from home, left the management of affairs
entirely in his hands. His occupations were very numerous.
He kept account of the receipts and expenditures
of the family; he collected the rents of the seigniory;
he managed the farm; he betook himself every
Sunday, rain or shine, to mass to receive the Easter water
in the seigneur's absence; and, among other minor
duties which devolved upon him, he presented for baptism
all the first-born children of the tenants of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">107</a></span>
estate&mdash;an honor which belonged to his elder brother,
but of which the latter had freed himself in favor of
Raoul.</p>

<p>A little incident may be cited to show Uncle Raoul's
importance. Let us imagine ourselves in the month of
November, when the seigneurial rents fall due. Uncle
Raoul, with a long quill pen behind his ear, sits in a
great armchair as on a throne. Beside him is a table
covered with green cloth, and on this table rests his
sword. As the tenant appears, he assumes an expression
of severity, which does not greatly alarm the debtor, for
the Seigneur D'Haberville is an indulgent landlord, and
his tenants pay when they please.</p>

<p>But Uncle Raoul is more deeply concerned for the
form than for the substance; the appearance of power
pleases him even as power itself. He will have everything
done with due ceremony.</p>

<p>"How do you do, my&mdash;my&mdash;lieutenant?" says the
<i>censitaire</i>, accustomed to call him uncle behind his
back.</p>

<p>"Very well. And thyself? What wilt thou?" replies
Uncle Raoul, with an air of great importance.</p>

<p>"I have come to pay the rent, my&mdash;my lieutenant;
but the times are so hard that I have no money," says
Jean Baptiste, ducking his head penitently.</p>

<p>"<i>Nescio vos!</i>" exclaims Uncle Raoul in a sonorous
voice; "<i>reddite quæ sunt Cæsaris Cæsari</i>."</p>

<p>"That's fine what you say, my&mdash;my captain, so fine
that I can't understand it at all," murmurs the <i>censitaire</i>.</p>

<p>"It's Latin, blockhead!" exclaims Uncle Raoul, "and
this Latin means, pay your lawful rents to the Seigneur
D'Haberville, on pain of being taken before the King's
courts and of being condemned in first and second instance
to pay all expense, damages, claims, and costs."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">108</a></span></p>

<p>"It would go hard with me," murmurs the <i>censitaire</i>.</p>

<p>"Heavens, you may well say so!" exclaims Uncle
Raoul, raising his eyes to the ceiling.</p>

<p>"I know very well my&mdash;my seigneur, that your
Latin threatens me with all these punishments; but I
had the misfortune to lose my filly of last spring."</p>

<p>"What, you rascal! On account of having lost a
wretched brute of six months old you wish to evade the
seigneurial claims, which have been established by your
sovereign on a foundation as enduring as yonder mountains.
<i>Quos ego ...!</i>"</p>

<p>"I believe," murmurs the <i>habitant</i> to himself, "that
he is speaking Indian to frighten me."</p>

<p>Then he adds aloud: "You see, my filly, according
to what all the best judges declared, would have been in
four years' time the best trotter on all the south shore,
and worth a hundred francs if a penny."</p>

<p>"Oh, to the devil with you!" replied Uncle Raoul.
"Go and tell Lisette to give you a good drink of brandy,
to console you for the loss of your filly. These scoundrels,"
adds Uncle Raoul, "drink more of our brandy
than their rents will ever pay for."</p>

<p>The <i>habitant</i>, going into the kitchen, remarks to
Lisette with a chuckle: "I've had a bad job with Uncle
Raoul; he even threatened to haul me up before the
courts."</p>

<p>As Uncle Raoul was very devout after his fashion,
he failed not to tell his beads and read his primer daily.
In singular contrast with this devotion, however, his
leisure moments were occupied in cursing, with an edifying
fervor, his enemies the English, who had broken a
leg for him at the capture of Louisburg. It was this
accident which had compelled him to relinquish the life
of a soldier.</p>

<p>When the young men arrived before the manor-house,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">109</a></span>
they were astonished at the sight that met their
eyes. Not only were all the rooms lit up, but also some
of the out-buildings. There was an unaccustomed stir,
a strange hurrying to and fro. As the whole yard was
illuminated by the blaze of lights, they could distinguish
six men armed with guns and axes and seated on
a log.</p>

<p>"I perceive," remarked Archie, "that the lord of the
manor has called out his guard to give us a fitting reception,
just as I predicted."</p>

<p>José, who did not understand this sort of chaffing,
shifted his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the
other, muttered something between his teeth, and began
to smoke fiercely.</p>

<p>"I can not tell why my father's guards, as you do
them the honor to call them, are under arms," answered
Jules, laughing, "unless it is that they are expecting an
attack from our friends the Iroquois. But, come on,
we'll soon solve the problem."</p>

<p>As they entered the yard the six men rose simultaneously
and came forward to welcome their young master
and his friend.</p>

<p>"What, you here!" exclaimed Jules, grasping their
hands cordially; "you, Father Chouinard! you, Julien!
and Alexis Dubé, and Father Tontaine, and François
Maurice, the incorrigible! Why, I thought the parish
would have taken advantage of my absence to rise as
one man and chuck you into the St. Lawrence, as a
proper punishment for the infernal tricks you play on
peaceable people."</p>

<p>"Our young seigneur," said Maurice, "always has
his joke ready; but, if they were to drown all those who
put other folk into a rage, I know some one who would
have got his deserts long ago."</p>

<p>"You think so!" said Jules, laughing. "Perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">110</a></span>
that all comes from the bad milk on which I was nursed.
Remember that it was at the breast of your own dear
mother I was nourished. But, to change the subject,
what in the mischief are you all doing here at this hour?
Are you gaping at the stars and moon?"</p>

<p>"There are twelve of us," said Father Chouinard.
"We are taking turns in guarding the May-pole which
we are going to present to your honored father to-morrow.
Six are in the house, having a good time, while
we are taking the first watch."</p>

<p>"I should have thought that the May-pole might
safely have been left to guard itself," said Jules. "I
don't think there is anybody crazy enough to get out of
his warm bed for the pleasure of breaking his back in
dragging away this venerable timber, at least while there
are May-poles on all sides to be had for the cutting."</p>

<p>"You are off there, young master," answered Chouinard.
"You see there are always some folks jealous because
they have not been invited to the May-feast. It
was only last year some scoundrels who had been invited
to stay at home had the audacity to saw up, during
the night, the May-pole which the folks of Ste.
Anne were going to present to Captain Besse. Think
of the poor peoples' feelings when they gathered in the
morning and saw that their fine tree was nothing more
nor less than so much firewood!"</p>

<p>Jules burst out laughing at a trick which he could so
well appreciate.</p>

<p>"Laugh as much as you like," said Father Tontaine,
"but t'ain't hardly Christian to put up tricks like that.
You understand," he added seriously, "we don't think
no such trick is going to be played on our good master;
but there be always some rascals everywhere, so we're
taking our precautions."</p>

<p>"I am a poor man," interposed Alexis Dubé, "but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">111</a></span>
not for all I own would I see such an insult put on our
captain."</p>

<p>The others spoke to the same effect, but Jules was
already in the arms of his family, while the worthy
<i>habitants</i> went on muttering their imprecations against
the imaginary, though improbable, wretches who would
have the hardihood to cut up the good fir log which
they were going to present to their seigneur on the morrow.
It may be suspected that the liberal cups and
ample supper of May-day eve, together with the sure
anticipation of a toothsome breakfast, were not without
their effect on the zeal of the honest <i>habitants</i>.</p>

<p>"Come," said Jules to his friend after supper, "let
us go and see the preparations for the May-day feast.
As neither of us has had the advantage of being present
at those famous nuptials of the opulent Gamache,
which so ravished the heart of Sancho Panza, the present
occasion may give us some faint idea of that entertainment."</p>

<p>In the kitchen all was bustle and confusion. The
laughing shrill voices of the women were mixed with
those of the six men off guard, who were occupied in
drinking, smoking, and chaffing. Three servants, armed
each with a frying-pan, were making, or, to use the
common expression, "turning" pancakes over the fire
in an ample fireplace, whose flames threw ruddy lights
and shadows, <i>à la</i> Rembrandt, over the merry faces
thronging the great kitchen. Some of the neighbor
women, armed with dish and spoon and seated at a long
table, kept dropping into the frying-pans, as fast as they
were emptied, the liquid paste of which the pancakes
were made; while others sprinkled them with maple
sugar as they were piled upon the plates. A great kettle,
half full of boiling lard, received the doughnuts which
two cooks kept incessantly dropping in and ladling out.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">112</a></span></p>

<p>The faithful José, the right hand of the establishment,
seemed to be everywhere at once on these solemn
occasions.</p>

<p>Seated at the end of a table, coat thrown off, sleeves
of his shirt rolled up to the elbows, his inseparable knife
in hand, he was hacking fiercely at a great loaf of maple-sugar
and at the same time urging on two servants who
were engaged at the same task. The next moment he
was running for fine flour and eggs, as the pancake
paste got low in the bowls; nor did he forget to visit
the refreshment table from time to time to assure himself
that nothing was lacking, or to take a drink with his
friends.</p>

<p>Jules and Archie passed from the kitchen to the
bake-house, where the cooks were taking out of the oven
a batch of pies, shaped like half-moons and about fourteen
inches long; while quarters of veal and mutton,
spare-ribs, and cutlets of fresh pork, ranged around in
pans, waited to take their places in the oven. Their
last visit was to the wash-house where, in a ten-gallon
caldron, bubbled a stew of pork and mutton for the special
delectation of the old folks whose jaws had grown
feeble.</p>

<p>"Why!" exclaimed Archie, "it is a veritable feast
of Sardanapalus&mdash;a feast to last six months!"</p>

<p>"But you have only seen a part of it," said Jules.
"The dessert is yet ahead of us. I had imagined, however,
that you knew more about the customs of our <i>habitants</i>.
If at the end of the feast the table were not as
well supplied as at the beginning, the host would be accused
of stinginess. Whenever a dish even threatens to
become empty, you will see the servants hasten to replace
it."</p>

<p>"I am the more surprised at that," said Archie, "because
your <i>habitants</i> are generally economical, even to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">113</a></span>
the point of meanness. How do you reconcile this with
the great waste which must take place after a feast?"</p>

<p>"Our <i>habitants</i>, scattered wide apart over all New
France, and consequently deprived of markets during
spring, summer, and autumn, live then on nothing but
salt meat, bread, and milk, and, except in the infrequent
case of a wedding, they rarely give a feast at either of
those seasons. In winter, on the other hand, there is a
lavish abundance of fresh meats of all kinds; there is a
universal feasting, and hospitality is carried to an extreme
from Christmas time to Lent; there is a perpetual
interchange of visits. Four or five <i>carrioles</i>, containing
a dozen people, drive up; the horses are unhitched, the
visitors take off their wraps, the table is set, and in an
hour or so it is loaded down with smoking dishes."</p>

<p>"Your <i>habitants</i> must possess Aladdin's lamp!" exclaimed
Archie.</p>

<p>"You must understand," said Jules, "that if the
<i>habitants'</i> wives had to make such preparations as are
necessary in higher circles, their hospitality would be
much restricted or even put a stop to, for few of them
are able to keep a servant. As it is, however, their social
diversions are little more trouble to them than to
their husbands. Their method is very simple. From
time to time, in their leisure moments, they cook three
or four batches of various kinds of meat, which in our
climate keeps without difficulty; when visitors come, all
they have to do is to warm up these dishes in their
ovens, which at this season of the year are kept hot
enough to roast an ox. The <i>habitants</i> abhor cold meat.
It is good to see our Canadian women, so gay at all
times, making ready these hasty banquets&mdash;to see them
tripping about, lilting a bit of a song, or mixing in the
general chatter, and dancing backward and forward between
the table and the stove. Josephte sits down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">114</a></span>
among her guests, but jumps up to wait upon them
twenty times during the meal. She keeps up her singing
and her chaffing, and makes everybody as merry as
herself.</p>

<p>"You will, doubtless, imagine that these warmed-up
dishes lose a good deal of their flavor; but habit is second
nature, and our <i>habitants</i> do not find fault. Moreover,
as their taste is more wholesome and natural than
ours, I imagine that these dinners, washed down with a
few glasses of brandy, leave them little cause to envy us.
But we shall return to this subject later on; let us now
rejoin my father and mother, who are probably getting
impatient at our absence. I merely wanted to initiate
you a little beforehand in the customs of our <i>habitants</i>,
whom you have never before observed in their winter
life."</p>

<p>Everybody sat up late that night at D'Haberville
Manor. There was so much to talk about. It was not
till the small hours that the good-nights were said; and
soon the watchers of the May-pole were the only ones
left awake in the manor house of St. Jean-Port-Joli.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">115</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">THE MAY-FEAST.</span></h2>
</div>


<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"><span class="i0">Le premier jour de Mai,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Labourez,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">J'm'en fus planter un mai,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Labourez,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A la porte à ma mie.<br /></span></div></div></div>

<p class="right"><i>Ancienne Chanson.</i><br /></p>

<p>It was scarcely five o'clock in the morning when
Jules, who slept like a cat, shouted to Lochiel in the
next room that it was high time they were up; but as
the latter would make no response, Jules took the surest
way of arousing him by getting up himself. Arming
himself with a towel dipped in cold water, he entered
his friend's bedroom and squeezed the icy fluid in his
face. In spite of his aquatic inclinations, Archie found
this attention very little to his taste; he snatched the
towel, rolled it into a ball, and hurled it at Jules's head.
Then he turned over and was preparing to go to sleep
again, when Jules snatched off all the bed-clothes. It
looked as if the fortress, in this extremity, had nothing
to do but surrender at discretion; but the garrison, in
the person of Lochiel, was more numerous than the besieging
force in the person of Jules, and, shaking the
latter fiercely, he asked if sleeping was forbidden at
D'Haberville Manor. He was even proceeding to hurl
the besieger from the ramparts when Jules, struggling
in his adversary's mighty arms, begged him to listen a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">116</a></span>
moment before inflicting such a disgrace upon a future
soldier of France.</p>

<p>"What have you to say for yourself, you wretched
boy?" exclaimed Archie, now thoroughly awake. Is it
not enough for you that all day long you give me no
peace, but even in the night you must come and torment
me?"</p>

<p>"I am grieved, indeed," said Jules, "at having interrupted
your slumbers; but as our folk have to set up
another May-pole at the place of Bélanger of the Cross,
a good mile and a half from here, they intend to present
my father with his at six o'clock; and if you don't
want to lose any of the ceremony it is time for you to
dress. I declare, I thought everybody was like myself,
wrapped up in everything that can bring us more in touch
with our <i>habitants</i>. I do not know anything that moves
me more than this sympathy between my father and his
tenants, between our family and these brave lads; moreover,
as my adopted brother, you will have your part to
play in the approaching spectacle."</p>

<p>As soon as the young men had finished dressing,
they passed from their room to one which looked out on
the yard, where a lively scene met their view. There
were at least a hundred <i>habitants</i> scattered about in
groups. With their long guns, their powder-horns suspended
from the neck, their tomahawks stuck in the girdle,
their inseparable axes, they looked less like peaceful
tillers of the soil than a band of desperadoes ready for
a foray.</p>

<p>Lochiel was much amused by the spectacle, and
wished to go out and join the groups, but Jules vetoed
his proposal, saying that it would be contrary to etiquette.
He explained that the family were all supposed to be
unaware of what was going on outside, no matter how
great the noise and excitement. Some were decorating<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">117</a></span>
the May-pole, others were digging the hole in which it
was to be planted, while yet others were sharpening long
stakes to be used in bracing it firmly. As for the May-pole
itself, it was of the utmost simplicity. It consisted
of a tall fir tree, with its branches cut off and peeled to
within two or three feet of the top. Here a tuft of
greenery, about three feet long, was permitted to remain,
and dignified with the title of "the bouquet." This
"bouquet" was ornamental enough so long as it kept
green, but when withered by the heat of summer its
appearance became anything but cheerful. A rod six
feet long, painted red, surmounted with a green weather
cock and adorned with a large red ball, was thrust between
the branches of "the bouquet" and nailed to the
tree, which completed the decoration of the May-pole.
It is necessary to add that strong wooden pegs, driven
into the trunk at regular intervals, facilitated the climbing
of the May-pole, and served also as points of support
for the props by aid of which it was raised into position.</p>

<p>The firing of a gun before the main entrance announced
that every thing was ready. Immediately on
this signal the seigneur and his family gathered in the
drawing-room to receive the deputation which would
follow immediately after the report. The seigneur occupied
a great arm-chair, with Lady D'Haberville seated
at his right and his son Jules at his left. Uncle Raoul,
erect and leaning upon his sword, stood immediately behind
this first group, between Blanche and Madame de
Beaumont who were seated. Archie stood at Blanche's
left. They were scarcely in position when two old men,
introduced by José, the major-domo, approached Seigneur
D'Haberville, saluted him with that courteous air
which was natural to the early Canadians and begged
his permission to plant a May-pole before his threshold.
This permission granted, the deputation withdrew and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">118</a></span>
acquainted the crowd with their success. Everybody
then knelt down and prayed for protection throughout
the day. In about fifteen minutes the May-pole rose
over the crowd with a slow, majestic motion, and its
green top looked down upon all the buildings surrounding
it. A few minutes more and it was firmly planted.</p>

<p>A second gunshot announced a new deputation, and
the same two old men, carrying their guns, escorted in
two of the leading <i>habitants</i>. One of the <i>habitants</i> carried
a little greenish goblet, two inches high, on a plate
of faïence, while the other bore a bottle of brandy. Introduced
by the indispensable José, they begged the
seigneur to come and receive the May-pole which he had
so graciously consented to accept. Upon the seigneur's
response, one of the old men added:</p>

<p>"Would our seigneur be pleased to 'wet' the Maypole
before he blackens it?" With these words he
handed the seigneur a gun and a glass of brandy.</p>

<p>"We will 'wet' it together, my friends," said M.
D'Haberville, making a sign to José, who at once hastened
forward with a tray containing four glasses of the
same cordial fluid. Then the seigneur rose, touched
glasses with the four delegates, swallowed at a draught
their brandy, which he pronounced excellent, took up
the gun and started for the door, followed by all that
were in the room.</p>

<p>As soon as he appeared on the threshold a young
man clambered up the May-pole with the nimbleness of
a squirrel, gave three twirls to the weather-cock, and
shouted: "Long live the King! Long live the Seigneur
D'Haberville!" And the crowd yelled after him with
all the vigor of their lungs: "Long live the King! Long
live the Seigneur D'Haberville!" Meanwhile the young
man had clambered down again, cutting off with his
tomahawk as he descended all the pegs of the May-pole.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">119</a></span></p>

<p>Thereupon the seigneur proceeded to blacken the
May-pole by firing at it a blank charge from his musket.
The other members of the family followed his example
in the order of their rank, the ladies firing as well as the
men.</p>

<p>Then followed a rattling <i>feu-de-joie</i>, which lasted a
good half-hour. One might have fancied the manor
house was besieged by a hostile army. The May-pole,
so white before, seemed suddenly to have been painted
black, so zealous were all to do it honor. Indeed, the
more powder one could burn on this occasion, the
greater the compliment to him for whom the May-pole
was erected.</p>

<p>As every pleasure comes to an end, M. D'Haberville
seized a moment when the firing appeared to slacken a
little to invite the crowd in to breakfast. There was
another rattling discharge by way of temporary farewell
to the May-pole, some splinters of which were now scattered
about the ground beneath, and every one moved
silently into the house.</p>

<p>The seigneur, the ladies, and a dozen of the oldest
among the leading <i>habitants</i>, were seated at a table in
the seigneurial dining-room. This table was set with
the plain dishes, wines, and coffee which constituted a
Canadian breakfast among the upper classes; there was
added also to gratify the guests some excellent brandy,
and some sugar-cakes in lieu of bread.</p>

<p>It was no offense to the other guests to be excluded
from this table; they were proud, on the contrary, of
the compliment paid to their more venerable relations
and friends.</p>

<p>The second table in the adjoining room, where
Uncle Raoul presided, was supplied as would have been
that of a rich <i>habitant</i> on a similar occasion. Besides
the superfluity of viands already enumerated, each guest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">120</a></span>
found beside his plate the inevitable sugar-cake, a cruller,
a tart about five inches in diameter and more rich
in paste than in jam, and an unlimited supply of brandy.
There were also some bottles of wine on the table, to
which nobody paid the least attention; to use their own
energetic expression, it did not "scratch the throat
enough." The wine was placed there chiefly for the
women, who were occupied in serving the breakfast, and
who would take their places at the table after the men's
departure. Josephte would take a glass or two of wine
without much pressing after she had had her accustomed
appetizer.</p>

<p>Over the third table, spread in the mighty kitchen,
presided Jules, with Archie to assist him. This was the
table for the young men, and it was supplied like that of
Uncle Raoul. While there was gayety enough at the
first two tables, there was at the same time a certain
decorum observed; but at the third, especially toward
the end of the repast, which lasted far on into the morning,
there was such a perpetual applause that one could
hardly hear himself speak.</p>

<p>The reader is much deceived if he imagines that
the May-pole was all this time enjoying repose. Almost
every moment one or other of the guests would
get up, run out and fire his gun at the May-pole, and
return to his place at the table after this act of
courtesy.</p>

<p>At the beginning of dessert the seigneur, accompanied
by the ladies, visited the second and third tables, where
they were rapturously received. A friendly word was
on his lips for every one. He drank the health of his
tenants, and his tenants drank to himself and his family,
to the accompaniment of the reports of twenty muskets,
which were blazing away outside.</p>

<p>This ceremony at an end, the seigneur returned to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">121</a></span>
his own table, where he was induced to sing a little
song, in the chorus of which all joined.</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Oh, here's to the hero,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">The hero, the hero;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, here's to the hero<br /></span>
<span class="i4">That taught men to dine!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When joy is at zero,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">At zero, at zero;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When joy is at zero,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">What solace like wine!<br /></span>
<br />
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Chorus.</i>  Till he's drunk, or quite near it,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">No soldier will shrink,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But cry shame on the spirit<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Too craven to drink.<br /></span>
<br /></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"When we taste the rare liquor,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Rare liquor, rare liquor;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When we taste the rare liquor<br /></span>
<span class="i4">That tickles our throats,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our hearts they beat quicker,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Beat quicker, beat quicker;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our hearts they beat quicker,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Which clearly denotes<br /></span>
<br /></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Chorus.</i>  That till drunk, or quite near it,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">No soldier should shrink,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But cry shame on the spirit<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Too craven to drink."<br /></span>
</div></div>


<p>Scarcely was this song ended when the sonorous
voice of Uncle Raoul arose:</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Oh, I am a drinker, I,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">For I'm built that way;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let every man stick to his taste,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Each dog have his day!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The drinker he frights dull care<br /></span>
<span class="i4">To flight with a song&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He serves the jolliest god,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And he serves him long!<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p class="center">
<i>Chorus.</i>  Oh, I am a drinker, I, etc.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">122</a></span>
</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Let José go fighting and put<br /></span>
<span class="i4">The Dutchman to rout,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But I'll win my laurels at home<br /></span>
<span class="i4">In the drinking-bout!<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p class="center">
<i>Chorus.</i> Oh, I am a drinker, I, etc."
</p>

<p>"Your turn now, young master!" cried the third
table. "Our elders have set us the proper example to
follow."</p>

<p>"With all my heart," replied Jules; and he sang the
following verses:</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"God Bacchus, throned upon a cask,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Hath bid me love the bell-mouthed flask;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hath bid me vow these lips of mine<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Shall own no drink but wine!<br /></span>
<br /></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Chorus.</i> But wine, boys, but wine!<br /></span>
<span class="i4">We'll drain, we'll drain the bottles dry,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And swear the drink divine!<br /></span>
<br /></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Nor emperor nor king may know<br /></span>
<span class="i4">The joys that from our bumpers flow&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The mirth that makes the dullest shine&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Who owns no drink but wine!<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p class="center">
<i>Chorus.</i> But wine, boys, but wine! etc.</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Let wives go knit and sweethearts spin,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">We've wine to drown our troubles in.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We'll sing the praises of the vine,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And own no drink but wine!<br /></span>
</div></div>

<p class="center">
<i>Chorus.</i> But wine, boys, but wine! etc."
</p>

<p>The example once set by the hosts, everybody made
haste to follow it, and song succeeded song with ever-increasing
fervor. Then Father Chouinard, a retired
veteran of the French army after two songs which won
great applause, suggested that it was time to withdraw.
He thanked the seigneur for his hospitality, and proposed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">123</a></span>
to drink his health once again&mdash;a proposition
which was received with loud enthusiasm.</p>

<p>After this the joyous throng took its departure singing,
with the accompaniment of musket-shots, whose
echoes, thrown back by the bluff, appeared to linger reluctantly
behind them.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">THE FEAST OF ST. JEAN-BAPTISTE.</span></h2>
</div>

<p>Every parish used to keep holiday on the feast of
its patron saint. The feast of St. John the Baptist, the
patron of the parish of St. Jean-Port-Joli, falling in the
most delightful season of the year, never failed to attract
a host of pilgrims, even from the remotest parishes.
The <i>habitant</i>, kept very busy with his farm-work,
was ready by this time for a little rest, and the fine
weather was an invitation to the road. In every family
grand preparations were made for this important occasion.
Within doors there was great cleaning up; the whitewash
brush went everywhere; the floors were scrubbed and
strewed with pine-needles; the fatted calf was killed, and
the shopkeepers drove a thriving trade in drinks. Thus
by the twenty-third day of June, the eve of the feast,
every house was thronged with pilgrims from the manor
and the presbytery down.</p>

<p>The seigneur used to present the consecrated bread;
while the collection at the high mass was taken up by two
young gentlemen and two young ladies, friends of the
seigneur, invited down from Quebec long beforehand. For
the consecrated bread and for the little cakes (<i>cousins</i>)
which accompanied it there was no small need in that
multitude which thronged not only the church, but the
surrounding yard. All the doors of the church stood
wide open, that everybody might have his share in the
service.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">125</a></span></p>

<p>It was an understood thing that the seigneur and his
friends should dine that day at the presbytery, and that
the curé and his friends should take supper at the manor
house. Very many of the <i>habitants</i>, too far away from
home to go and come between mass and vespers, took
lunch in the little wood of cedars, pines, and firs which
covered the valley between the church and the St. Lawrence.
Nothing can be imagined more picturesque and
bright than the groups scattered over the mossy green,
and gathered merrily around their snowy tablecloths.
The curé and his guests never failed to visit the picnickers
and exchange a few words with the men.</p>

<p>On all sides rose rude booths, after the fashion of
wigwams, covered with branches of maple and spruce,
wherein refreshments were sold. In a monotonous
voice, with strong emphasis on the first and last words,
the proprietors kept crying incessantly, "Good beer for
sale here!" And all the papas and the amorous gallants,
coaxed up for the occasion, would fumble dubiously
in the depths of their wallets for the wherewith
to treat youngster or sweetheart.</p>

<p>The <i>habitants</i> had preserved an impressive ceremony
handed down from their Norman ancestors. This ceremony
consisted of a huge bonfire at sunset of the eve
of St. Jean-Baptiste. An octagonal pyramid, about ten
feet high, was constructed before the main entrance of
the church. Covered with branches of fir interwoven
amid the strips of cedar which formed its surface, this
structure was eminently ornamental. The curé, accompanied
by his assistants, marched out and recited certain
prayers belonging to the occasion; then, after having
blessed the structure, he set a torch to the little piles
of straw arranged at the eight corners of the pyramid.
Straightway the whole pile burst crackling into flame,
amid the shouts and gun-firing of the crowd which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">126</a></span>
remained in attendance till the pyramid was burned to
ashes.</p>

<p>At this joyous ceremony, Blanche D'Haberville did
not fail to assist, in company with Jules, Lochiel, and
Uncle Raoul. A malicious critic, observing Uncle
Raoul as he stood leaning on his sword a little in advance
of the throng, might have been reminded of the
late lamented Vulcan of game-legged memory, so lurid
and grotesque an effect was cast upon his figure; which
by no means prevented Uncle Raoul from considering
himself the most important personage present.</p>

<p>Uncle Raoul had a very good and sufficient reason
for taking part in the bonfire. It was the day of the
salmon sale. Every <i>habitant</i> who stretched a net came
to sell his first salmon at the church door for the benefit
of the souls in purgatory; in other words, with the
money obtained for the fish he would pay for a mass to
be said for the souls about which he was most concerned.
The auctioneer announcing the object of the
sale, all strove to outbid each other. Nothing could be
more touching than this closeness of communion between
friends and relations beyond the grave, this anxious
concern extending even to the invisible world.
Our brethren of other creeds shed, indeed, as we do, the
bitterest of tears over the tomb which covers away their
dearest, but there they cease their solicitude and their
devotion.</p>

<p>When I was a child my mother taught me to conclude
all my prayers with this appeal: "Receive, O
Lord, soon into thy blessed paradise the souls of my
grandfather and grandmother." My prayers were then
for kinsfolk few in number and unknown to me. Now,
alas, in my old age, how many names would have to
pass my lips were I to enumerate in my prayers all the
loved ones who have left me!</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">127</a></span></p>

<p>It was some time after dark when Uncle Raoul,
Blanche, Jules, and Archie quitted the presbytery where
they had taken supper. Uncle Raoul, who had a smattering
of astronomy, explained to his niece, as they drove
along, the mysteries of the starry vault, marvels of
which, for all the efforts of their professor in astronomy,
our young men knew but little.</p>

<p>The young men were in high spirits, and, excited by
the splendor of the night in mid-forest, they laid aside
their decorum and began a host of antics, in spite of the
frowns of Blanche, who dreaded lest they should displease
her uncle.</p>

<p>The road followed the banks of the St. Lawrence.
It was bordered by thick woods, with here and there a
clearing through which was commanded a perfect view
of the giant stream. Coming to one of these clearings,
where they could sweep the whole river from Cape
Tourmente to Malbaie, Archie was unable to repress a
cry of surprise, and, turning to Uncle Raoul, he said:</p>

<p>"You, sir who explain so well the marvels of the
heaven, might I beg you to lower your gaze to earth a
moment and tell me the meaning of all those lights
which are flashing along the north shore as far as eye
can see? Verily, I begin to believe José's story. Canada
appears to be that land of goblins, imps, and witches
of which my nurse used to tell me amid my Scottish
hills."</p>

<p>"Ah," said Uncle Raoul, "let us stop here a moment.
That is the people of the north shore sending
messages to their friends and relations on this side, according
to their custom on the eve of St. Jean-Baptiste.
They need neither pen nor ink for their communications.
Let us begin at Eboulements: Eleven
adults have died in that parish since autumn, three of
them in one house, that of my friend Dufour. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">128</a></span>
family must have been visited by small-pox or some
malignant fever, for those Dufours are vigorous and all
in the prime of life. The Tremblays are well, which I
am glad to perceive; they are worthy people. At Bonneau's
somebody is sick, probably the grandmother,
who is getting well on in years. There is a child dead at
Bélair's house. I fear it is their only child, as theirs is
a young household."</p>

<p>Thus Uncle Raoul ran on for some time gathering
news of his friends at Eboulements, at Isle aux Coudres,
and at Petite-Rivière.</p>

<p>"I understand without having the key," said Lochiel.
"Those are certain prearranged signals which are exchanged
between the dwellers on the opposite shores in
order to communicate matters of personal interest."</p>

<p>"Yes," answered Uncle Raoul; "and if we were on
the north shore we should observe similar signals on
this side. If a fire burns long and steadily, that is good
news; if it sinks gradually, that is a sign of sickness;
if it is extinguished suddenly, that means death; if it
is so extinguished more than once, that signifies so many
deaths. For a grown person, a strong blaze; for a child,
a feeble one. The means of intercourse being scanty
enough even in summer, and entirely cut off during
winter, the <i>habitants</i>, made ingenious by necessity, have
invented this simple expedient.</p>

<p>"The same signals," continued Uncle Raoul, "are
understood by all the sailors, who use them in time of
wreck to convey information of their distress. Only
last year five of our best huntsmen would have starved
to death but for this on the shoals of the Loups-Marins.
Toward the middle of March there was a sudden
change in the weather. The ice went out all at once
and the ducks, geese, and brant made their appearance
in astonishing numbers. Five of our hunters, well supplied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">129</a></span>
with provisions&mdash;for the weather is treacherous in
Canada&mdash;set out at once for the Loups-Marins; but the
birds were so numerous that they left their provisions
in the canoe (which they tied carelessly in front of their
hut), and ran to take their places in the ditch which
they had to get scooped out before the return of the
tide. This ditch, you must know, is a trough dug in
the mud to a depth of three or four feet, wherein the
hunter lies in wait for his game, which are very wary, the
geese and brant particularly. It is a wretchedly uncomfortable
kind of hunting, for you have to crouch in these
holes, with your dog, often for seven or eight hours at a
stretch. You have no lack of occupation to kill time,
however, for you have to keep bailing out the muddy
water which threatens to drown you.</p>

<p>"All was in proper shape, and our hunters were expecting
with the rising tide an ample reward for their
pains, when suddenly there came up a frightful storm.
The sleet was driven by the wind in such dense clouds
that the birds could not be seen six feet away. Our
hunters, having waited patiently until flood tide, which
drove them from their posts, returned to their hut, where
a dreadful surprise awaited them; their canoe had been
carried away by the storm, and there remained, to feed
five men, only one loaf of bread and one bottle of
brandy, which they had taken into the hut on their
arrival, that they might indulge in a snack before getting
to work. They went to bed without supper, for the
snow-storm might last three days, and, being about three
leagues from either shore, it would be impossible, in
such weather, for their signals of distress to be seen.
But their calculations fell far short of the fact. A second
winter had set in. The cold became very severe,
the snow continued falling for eight days, and the river
was once more filled with ice as in January.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">130</a></span></p>

<p>Then they began to make their signals, which could
be seen from both shores; but it was impossible to go
to their aid. The signals of distress were followed by
those of death. The fire was lighted every evening and
immediately extinguished. When three of the party
were reported dead, some <i>habitants</i>, at the imminent risk
of their lives, did all that could be expected of the
bravest men; but in vain, for the river was so thick
with ice cakes that the canoes were carried up and down
with the ebb and flow of the tide, and could not get
near the scene of the disaster. It was not until the
seventeenth day that they were rescued by a canoe from
Isle aux Coudres. When the rescuing party arrived they
heard no sound in the hut, and feared they were too
late. The sufferers were still alive, however, and after
a few weeks of care were quite themselves again;
but they had learned a lesson they were not likely to
forget, and the next time they go hunting on the Loups-Marins
they will haul their canoe up out of reach of
high tide."</p>

<p>At last Uncle Raoul came to an end, just as anybody
else would.</p>

<p>"Dear uncle," said Blanche, "do you not know a
song appropriate to so delicious a night as this, and
so enchanting a scene?"</p>

<p>"Hear! hear!" exclaimed the young men, "a song
from Uncle Raoul!"</p>

<p>This was assailing the chevalier on his weak point.
He was a singer, and very proud of it. Without further
pressing he began, in a splendid tenor voice, the following
song, which he sang with peculiar feeling as a brave
hunter adorned with his scars. While acknowledging
that his verses took many a liberty with the rules of
rhyme, he declared that these defects were redeemed by
the vividness and originality of the composition.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">131</a></span></p>


<p>UNCLE RAOUL'S SONG.</p>

<blockquote>
<p>As I was walking, somewhat late,<br />
A-through a lonely wood and great,<br />
Hunting partridge, snipe, and cock,<br />
And careless of the clock,<br />
I raised my gun to drop a bird,<br />
When in the bushes something stirred;<br />
I heard a cry&mdash;and saw the game<br />
That love alone can tame.<br />
<br />
I saw a fair one all alone,<br />
Lamenting on a mossy stone,<br />
Her hair about so fair a face<br />
As lightened that dark place.<br />
I called my dog to heel, and there<br />
I fired my gun into the air.<br />
So loud with fear the lady cried,<br />
I hastened to her side.<br />
<br />
I said to her, I said, "Sweet heart,<br />
Be comforted, whoe'er thou art.<br />
I am a valiant cavalier,<br />
Have thou of me no fear.<br />
Beholding thee, my lovely one,<br />
Thus left lamenting and alone,<br />
I fain would be thy knight-at-arms,<br />
And shield thee from alarms."<br />
<br />
"Oh, succor me, fair sir," she saith,<br />
"My heart with fear was nigh to death.<br />
I am benighted and astray,<br />
Oh, show me, sir, my way!<br />
Oh, show me, gentle sir, the road,<br />
For Mary's sake, to mine abode.<br />
My heart, fair sir, but for your grace,<br />
Had died in this dark place."<br />
<br />
"Now, lady, give thy hand to me.<br />
Not far the way&mdash;not far with thee.<br />
Right glad am I to do thee pleasure,<br />
And I have the leisure.<br /></p>
</blockquote>

<blockquote>
<p>But might I crave before we part,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">132</a></span><br />
Oh, lady dear, oh, fair sweet heart&mdash;<br />
Might I dare to beg the bliss<br />
Of one small kiss?"<br />
<br />
Saith she, "I can not say thee nay;<br />
Thy service can I ne'er repay.<br />
Take one, or even two, or three,<br />
If so it pleaseth thee.<br />
More gallant sir was never seen;<br />
Much honored have my kisses been."<br />
(This was the last I heard of her)<br />
"And now farewell, kind sir."<br /></p>
</blockquote>

<p>"The devil," said Jules, "I perceive, dear sir, that
you did not waste any time. I will wager, now, that
you have been a terrible gallant in your younger days,
and can count your victims by the score. It is so, eh,
uncle mine? Do tell us some of your conquests."</p>

<p>"Ugly, my dear boy," replied Uncle Raoul, with a
gratified air, "ugly I certainly am, but very agreeable
to the ladies."</p>

<p>Jules was going on in the same vein, but seeing the
way his sister was frowning at him, he bit his lips to
keep from laughing, and repeated the last four lines:</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem">"'More gallant sir was never seen;<br />
Much honored have my kisses been'<br />
(This was the last I heard of her)<br />
'And now farewell, kind sir.'"</div></div>

<p>The young men continued the singing till they
reached a clearing, where they saw a fire in the woods a
little way from the road.</p>

<p>"That is the witch of the manor," said Uncle Raoul.</p>

<p>"I have always forgotten to ask why she was called
the witch of the manor," said Archie.</p>

<p>"Because she has established herself in this wood,
which formerly belonged to the D'Haberville estate,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">133</a></span>
said Uncle Raoul. "My brother exchanged it for a
part of his present domain, in order to get nearer his
mill at Trois Saumons."</p>

<p>"Let us go and see poor old Marie," said Blanche.
"When I was a child she used to bring me the first
spring flowers and the first strawberries of the season."</p>

<p>Uncle Raoul made some objections on account of the
lateness of the hour, but he could refuse Blanche nothing,
and presently the horses were hitched on the edge
of the wood and our party were on their way to the
witch's abode.</p>

<p>The dwelling of old Marie by no means resembled
that of the Cumæan sybil, or of any other sorceress, ancient
or modern. It was a sort of patchwork hut, built
of logs and unquarried stones, and carpeted within with
many colored mosses. The roof was cone-shaped and
covered with birch-bark and spruce branches.</p>

<p>Old Marie was seated on a log at the door of her
hut, cooking something in a frying-pan over a fire which
was surrounded with stones to keep it from spreading.
She paid no attention to her visitors, but maintained a
conversation with some invisible being behind her. She
kept waving first one hand and then the other behind
her back, as if attempting to drive away this being, and
the burden of her utterance was: "Avaunt, avaunt! it
is you that bring the English here to eat up the
French!"</p>

<p>"Oh, ho, my prophetess of evil," exclaimed Uncle
Raoul, "when you get done talking to the devil, would
you be kind enough to tell me what you mean by that
threat?"</p>

<p>"Come, Marie," interposed Jules, "tell us if you
really think you are talking to the devil? You can fool
the <i>habitants</i>, but you must know that we put no faith in
such delusions."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">134</a></span></p>

<p>"Avaunt! Avaunt!" continued the witch with the
same gestures, "you that are bringing the English to eat
up the French."</p>

<p>"I am going to speak to her," said Blanche; "she
loves me, and I am sure she will answer me."</p>

<p>Approaching the old woman, she laid her hand on
her shoulder and said gently:</p>

<p>"Do you not know me, my good Marie? Do you
not recognize <i>la petite seigneuresse</i>, as you used to call
me?"</p>

<p>The old woman interrupted her monologue and
looked tenderly at the girl. A tear even gathered in her
eyes, but could not overflow, so few such were there in
her burning brain.</p>

<p>"Why, dear Marie, do you lead this wild and vagabond
life?" exclaimed Blanche. "Why do you live in
the woods, you who are the wife of a rich <i>habitant</i>, the
mother of a numerous family? Your poor children,
brought up by strangers, are crying for their dear mother.
Mamma and I were looking for you at your house
after the feast. We were talking to your husband who
loves you. How unhappy you must be!"</p>

<p>The poor woman sprang upon her seat and her eyes
shot flames, as she cried, pale with anger:</p>

<p>"Who is it dare speak of my misfortunes? Is it the
fair young girl, the darling of her parents, who will never
be wife and mother? Is it the rich and noble lady,
brought up in silk and fine linen, who will soon, like me,
have but a hut to shelter her? Woe! Woe! Woe!"</p>

<p>She was about to retire into the forest, but seeing
Jules much moved, she cried again:</p>

<p>"Is it Jules D'Haberville who is so concerned at my
wretchedness? Is it, indeed, Jules D'Haberville, bravest
of the brave, whose bleeding body I see them dragging
over the Plains of Abraham? Is it, indeed, his blood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">135</a></span>
that crimsons the last glorious field of my country?
Woe! Woe! Woe!"</p>

<p>"This poor woman moves my heart strangely," said
Lochiel, as she was disappearing in the thicket.</p>

<p>The creature heard him. She returned once more,
folded her arms, turned upon him a gaze of calm bitterness,
and said:</p>

<p>"Keep your pity for yourself, Archibald de Lochiel.
The family fool has no need of your pity! Keep your
pity for yourself and for your friends! Keep it for
yourself on that day when, forced to execute a cruel
order, you shall tear with your nails that breast that
hides a noble and generous heart! Keep it for your
friends, Archibald de Lochiel, on that day when you
shall set the torch to their peaceful dwellings, that day
when the old and feeble, the women and the children, shall
flee before you as sheep before the wolf! Keep your
pity! You will need it all when you carry in your arms
the bleeding body of him you call your brother! I have
but one grief at this hour, Archibald de Lochiel, it is
that I have no curse to utter against you. Woe! Woe!
Woe!" And she disappeared into the forest.</p>

<p>"May I be choked by an Englishman," said Uncle
Raoul, "if poor silly Marie has not shown herself tonight
a sorceress of the approved type, the type which
has been celebrated by poets ancient and modern. I
wonder what mad weed she has been rubbing against,
she who is always so polite and gentle with us."</p>

<p>All agreed that they had never heard anything like
it before. The rest of the drive was passed in silence;
for, though attaching no credence to the witch's words,
they could not at once throw off their ominous influence.</p>

<p>On their arrival at the manor house, however, where
they found a number of friends awaiting them, this little
cloud was soon scattered.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">136</a></span></p>

<p>The joyous laughter of the party could be heard
even to the highway, and the echoes of the bluff were
kept busy repeating the refrain:</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem">"Ramenez vos moutons, bergère,<br />
Belle bergère, vos moutons."<br /></div></div>

<p>The dancers had broken one of the chains of their
dance, and were running everywhere, one behind the
other, around the vast court-yard. They surrounded
the chevalier's carriage, the chain reunited, and they
began dancing round and round, crying to Mademoiselle
D'Haberville, "Descend, fair shepherdess."</p>

<p>Blanche sprang lightly out of the carriage. The
leader of the dance at once whisked her off, and began
to sing:</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Hail to the fairest in the land!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">(Hail to the fairest in the land!)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">"Now I take you by the hand.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">(Now I take you by the hand.)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I lead you here, I lead you there;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bring back your sheep, O shepherdess fair.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bring back your sheep and with care them keep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shepherdess fair, bring back your sheep.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bring back, bring back, bring back with care,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bring back your sheep, O shepherdess fair!"<br /></span>
</div></div></div>


<p>After making several more rounds, with the chevalier's
carriage in the middle, and all the time singing:</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem">"Ramenez, ramenez, ramenez donc,<br />
Belle bergère, vos moutons."<br /></div></div>

<p>They at length broke up the chain, and all danced merrily
into the house.</p>

<p>Uncle Raoul, at last set at liberty by the inexorable
dancers, descended as he could from the carriage and
hastened to join the party at the supper-table.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">137</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">"THE GOOD GENTLEMAN."</span></h2>
</div>

<blockquote>
<p>Tout homme qui, à quarante ans, n'est pas misanthrope, n'a jamais
aimé les hommes.&mdash;<span class="smcap">Champfort.</span></p></blockquote>

<blockquote>
<p>J'ai été prodigieusement fier jusqu'à quarente-cinq ans: mais le malheur
m'a bien courbé et m'a rendu aussi humble que j'étais fier. Ah!
c'est une grande école que le malheur! j'ai appris à me courber et à
m'humilier sous la main de Dieu.&mdash;<span class="smcap">Chenedollé.</span></p></blockquote>

<p>The two months which Jules had to spend with his
family before his departure for Europe had come to an
end, and the vessel in which he had taken passage was
to sail in two or three days. Lochiel was at Quebec,
making preparations for a voyage which could hardly
take less than two months. Abundant provisions were
necessary, and Seigneur D'Haberville had intrusted this
point to the young Scotchman's care, while Jules's mother
and sister were loading down the young men's valises
with all the comforts and dainties they could think of.
As the time drew near for a separation which might be
forever, Jules was drawn closer and closer to his family,
whom he could hardly bear to leave even for a moment.
One day, however, he remarked:</p>

<p>"As you know, I promised 'the good gentleman'
that I would go and stay a night with him before my
departure. I will be back to-morrow morning in time to
breakfast with you."</p>

<p>With these words, he picked up his gun and started<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">138</a></span>
for the woods, in order to take a short cut and have a
little hunting by the way.</p>

<p>M. d'Egmont, whom everybody called "the good
gentleman," dwelt in a cottage on the Trois Saumons
River, about three quarters of a league from
the manor house. With him there lived a faithful follower
who had shared alike his good and his evil fortunes.
André Franc&oelig;ur was of the same age as his
master, and was also his foster-brother. Having been
the playfellow of his childhood, and the trusted friend
rather than the valet of his riper years, André Franc&oelig;ur
had found it as natural to follow D'Egmont's fortunes
in adversity as in prosperity.</p>

<p>D'Egmont and his servant were living on the interest
of a small capital which they had in common. One
might even say that the savings of the valet were even
greater than those of the master. Was it consistent
with D'Egmont's honor to be thus, in a way, dependent
on his own servant? Many will answer no; but "the
good gentleman" argued otherwise.</p>

<p>"When I was rich I spent my wealth for my friends,
and how have my friends rewarded me? André, alone,
has shown himself grateful and noble-hearted. In no
way, therefore, do I lower myself by associating my
fortune with his, as I would have done with one of
my own station had one been found as noble as my
valet."</p>

<p>When Jules arrived, the good gentleman was busy
weeding a bed of lettuce in his garden. Entirely absorbed,
he did not see his young friend, who overheard
the following soliloquy:</p>

<p>"Poor little insect! I have wounded you, and lo!
all the other ants, just now your friends, are falling upon
you to devour you. These tiny creatures are as cruel
as men. I am going to rescue you; and as for you, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">139</a></span>
good ants, thanks for the lesson; I have now a better
opinion of my kind."</p>

<p>"Poor fellow!" thought Jules, "with a heart so
tender, how he must have suffered!"</p>

<p>Withdrawing noiselessly, he entered by the garden
gate.</p>

<p>M. d'Egmont uttered an exclamation of delight
on seeing his young friend, whom he loved as a son.
Although, during the thirty years that he had lived on
Captain D'Haberville's estate, he had constantly refused
to take up his abode at the manor house, he yet was a
frequent visitor there, often remaining a week at a time
when there were no strangers present. Without actually
shunning society, he had suffered too much in his relations
with men of his own class to be able to mingle
cordially in their enjoyments.</p>

<p>Although poor, M. d'Egmont was able to do a
great deal of good. He comforted the afflicted; he
visited the sick, whom he healed with herbs whose virtues
were revealed to him by his knowledge of botany;
and if his alms-giving was not lavish, it was accompanied
by such sympathy and tact that it was none the
less appreciated by the poor, who had come to know
him by no other title than that of <i>le bon gentilhomme</i>.</p>

<p>When D'Egmont and his young friend entered the
house, André set before them a dish of fine trout and a
plate of broiled pigeons, garnished with chives.</p>

<p>"It is a frugal supper, indeed," said D'Egmont, "I
caught the trout myself in yonder brook, about an hour
ago, and André bagged the doves this morning at sunrise,
in yonder dead tree, half a gunshot from the cottage.
You see that, without being a seigneur, I have a
fish-pond and dove-cote on my estate. Now for a salad
of lettuce with cream, a bowl of raspberries, a bottle of
wine&mdash;and there is your supper, friend Jules."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">140</a></span></p>

<p>"And never fish-pond and dove-cote supplied better
meal to a hungry hunter," exclaimed Jules.</p>

<p>The meal was a cheerful one, for M. d'Egmont
seemed to have recovered something of the gayety of
his youth. His conversation was no less instructive
than amusing; for, although he had mingled much with
men in his early days, he had found in study a refuge
from his unhappiness.</p>

<p>"How do you like this wine?" said he to Jules, who
was eating like a hungry wolf, and had already quaffed
several bumpers.</p>

<p>"It is capital, upon my word."</p>

<p>"You are a connoisseur, my friend," went on M.
d'Egmont. "If it is true that wine and men improve
with age, that wine must indeed be excellent; and
as for me, I must be approaching perfection, for I am
very nearly ninety."</p>

<p>"Thus it is," said Jules, "that they call you 'the
good gentleman.'"</p>

<p>"The Athenians, my son, sent Aristides into exile,
and at the same time called him the Just. But let us
drop men and speak of wine. For my own part, I drink
it rarely. As with many other useless luxuries, I have
learned to do without it, and yet I enjoy perfect health.
This wine is older than you are; its age, for a man,
would not be much, but for wine it is something. Your
father sent me a basket of it the day you were born. In
his happiness he made gifts to all his friends. I have
kept it with great care, and I only bring it out on such
rare occasions as this. Here is a health to you, my dear
boy. Success to all your undertakings; and when you
come back to New France, promise that you will come
and sup here with me, and drink a last bottle of this
wine, which I will keep for you. You look astonished.
You think it likely that when you return I shall have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">141</a></span>
long since paid that debt which is paid even by the
most recalcitrant debtor. You are mistaken, my son; a
man like me does not die. But come, we have finished
supper, let us go and sit <i>sub tegmine fagi</i>, which may be
interpreted to mean, under that splendid walnut-tree
whose branches are reflected in the river."</p>

<p>The night was magnificent. The ripple of running
water was the only sound that broke the moonlit stillness.
M. d'Egmont was silent for some moments, and
Jules, not caring to disturb his reverie, began tracing
hieroglyphics with his finger in the sand.</p>

<p>"I have greatly desired," said "the good gentleman,"
"to have a talk with you before your departure, before
you go out into the world. I know that we can profit
little by the experience of others, but that each must
purchase his own. No matter, I shall at least have the
consolation of having opened my heart to you, a heart
which should have been dried up long since, but which
yet beats as warmly as when I led the joyous troops of
my companions more than half a century ago. Just
now you looked at me with surprise when I said that
a man like me does not die; you thought I spoke in
metaphor, but I was sincere at the moment. So often
on my knees have I begged for death that I have ended
by almost doubting Death's existence. The heathen have
made of him a divinity, doubtless that they might call
him to their aid in time of heavy sorrow. If it is as
physiology teaches us, and our sufferings depend upon
the sensitiveness of our nerves, then have I suffered what
would have killed fifty strong men." M. d'Egmont was
silent once more, and Jules flung some pebbles into the
river.</p>

<p>"See," resumed the old man, "this stream which
flows so quietly at our feet. Within an hour it mingles
with the troubled waters of the St. Lawrence, and in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">142</a></span>
few days it will be writhing under the scourge of the
Atlantic storms. Behold therein an image of our life!
Thy days hitherto have been like the current of this
stream; but soon you will be tossed on the great river
of life, and will be carried into the ocean of men, whose
waves rage ceaselessly. I have watched you from child-hood
up; I have studied your character minutely, and
that is what has caused me to seek this conversation.
Between your character and mine I have found the
closest resemblance. Like you, I was born kind-hearted,
sympathetic, generous to a fault. How has it come that
these virtues, which should have secured me happiness,
have rather been the cause of all my ills? How comes
it, my son, that these qualities, so applauded among men,
have risen against me as my most implacable enemies
and beaten me to the dust? I can not but think that I
deserved a kindlier fate. Born, like you, of rich and loving
parents, I was free to follow my every inclination.
Like you, I sought nothing so much as the love of those
about me. Like you, in my childhood I would not willingly
injure the most insignificant of God's creatures,
and to the beggar child I gave the very clothes I wore.
Needless to add that, again like you, my hand was ever
open to all my comrades, so that I was said to have
'nothing of my own.' It is curious to consider that, at
the hands of my playfellows, I never tasted ingratitude.
Is ingratitude the attribute only of the full-grown man?
Or is it a snare which this human nature casts about the
feet of generous childhood, the better to despoil the
prey when grown to be a richer prize! But, no; it is
impossible that youth could be so depraved.</p>

<p>"And you, Jules," continued the old man after this
semi-soliloquy, "have you yet experienced the ingratitude
of those you have befriended, the ingratitude which
pierces the heart like a blade of steel?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">143</a></span></p>

<p>"Never," said the young man.</p>

<p>"It is self-interest, then, bitter fruit of civilization,
which causes ingratitude; the more a man needs, the
more ungrateful he becomes. This reminds me of a
little story. About twenty years ago a poor savage of
the Huron tribe came to me in a pitiable state. It was
spring. He had made a long and painful march, he
had swum the icy streams when overheated, and as a result
he was seized with a violent attack of pleurisy, accompanied
by inflammation of the lungs. I judged that
only a copious bleeding could save him, and I made shift
to bleed him with my penknife. In a word, with care
and simple remedies, I effected a cure; but his convalescence
was slow, and he stayed with me more than two
months. In a little while André and I could talk to him
in his own tongue. He told me that he was a great
warrior and hunter, but that fire-water had been his ruin.
His thanks were as brief as his farewells:</p>

<p>"'My heart is too full for many words,' said he;
'the Huron warrior knows not how to weep like a woman.
I thank you, my brothers,' And he vanished
in the forest.</p>

<p>"I had entirely forgotten my Indian, when about
four years later he arrived at my door, accompanied by
another savage. I could scarcely recognize him. He
was <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'splendily'">splendidly</ins> clad, and everything about him bespoke
the great hunter and the mighty warrior. In one corner
of my room he and his companion laid down two bundles
of merchandise of great value&mdash;the richest furs, moccasins
splendidly embroidered with porcupine quills, and
exquisite pieces of work in birch bark, such as the Indians
alone know how to make. I congratulated him
upon the happy turn his affairs had taken.</p>

<p>"'Listen to me, my brother,' said he. 'I owe you
much, and I am come to pay my debt. You saved my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">144</a></span>
life, for you know good medicine. You have done
more, for you know the words which reach the heart;
dog of a drunkard as I was, I am become once more a
man as I was created by the Great Spirit. You were
rich when you lived beyond the great water. This wigwam
is too small for you; build one large enough to
hold your great heart. All these goods belong to you,'
The gratitude of this child of the forest brought tears
to my eyes; for in all my long life I had found but two
men who could be grateful&mdash;the faithful André, my foster-brother,
and this poor Indian, who, seeing that I was
going to accept nothing but a pair of deer-hide moccasins,
struck three fingers rapidly across his mouth with a
shrill cry of 'houa,' and took himself off at top speed
with his companion. Never after could I find a trace
of him. Our good curé undertook the sale of the goods,
the product of which, with interest, was lately distributed
among his tribe."</p>

<p>The good gentleman sighed, reflected a moment, then
resumed his speech:</p>

<p>"I am now going to tell you, my dear Jules, of the
most happy and most wretched periods of my life. Five
years of happiness! Five years of misery! O God!
for one single day of the joy of my youth, the joy as
keen as pain, which could make me forget all that I have
suffered! Oh, for one of those happy days when I believed
in human friendship, when I knew not the ingratitude
of men!</p>

<p>"When I had completed my studies, all careers were
open to me. That of arms seemed most suitable, but I
hated to shed blood. I obtained a place of trust under
the government. For me such a place was ruin. I had
a great fortune of my own, my office was a lucrative
one, and I scattered by handfuls the gold which I despised.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">145</a></span></p>

<p>"I do not accuse others in order to palliate my own
follies. But one thing is sure, I had more than enough for
all my own expenses, though not for those of my friends
and my friends' friends, who rushed upon me like hungry
wolves. I bear them no grudge; they but acted according
to their nature. As for me, my hand was never
shut. Not only my purse, but my signature was at everybody's
disposal. There was my greatest mistake; for I
may say in all sincerity that ninety-nine times out of a
hundred, in my times of greatest embarrassment, I had
to meet their liabilities with my own cash in order to
save my credit. A great English poet has said:</p>

<p class="center">
"Neither a borrower nor a lender be,<br />
For borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry,<br />
And loan oft loses both itself and friend.<br />
</p>

<p>"Give, my dear boy, with both hands; but be chary of
your signature.</p>

<p>"My private affairs were so mingled with those of
my office that it was long before I discovered how deeply
I was involved. The revelation came upon me like
a thunderbolt. Not only was I ruined, but I was on the
verge of a serious defalcation. At last I said to myself,
'what matters the loss of the gold, so long as I pay my
debts? I am young, and not afraid to work, and I
shall always have enough. Moreover, my friends owe
me considerable sums. When they see my difficulties,
not only will they hasten to give back what they owe,
but they will do for me as I have so often done for
them.' What a fool I was to judge others by myself!
For me, I would have moved heaven and earth to save
a friend from ruin. How innocent and credulous I was!
They had good reason, the wretches, to laugh at me.</p>

<p>"I took account of what was owed me and of the
value of my property, and then perceived that with
these affairs settled up there would remain but a small<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">146</a></span>
balance, which I could cover with the help of my relations.
The load rolled off my heart. How little I
knew of men! I told my debtors, in confidence, how I
was situated. I found them strangely cold. Several to
whom I had lent without written acknowledgment had
even forgotten that they owed me anything. Those
whose notes I held, declared it was ungenerous of me to
take them unawares. The greater number, who had had
business at my office, claimed boldly that I was in debt
to them. I did, indeed, owe them a trifle, while they
owed me considerable sums. I asked them for a settlement,
but they put me off with promises; and meanwhile
undermined my credit by whispering it about that
I was on the verge of ruin. They even turned me into
ridicule as a spendthrift fool. One wag of a fellow,
whom but eighteen months before I had saved not only
from ruin but from disgrace (his secret shall die with
me), was hugely witty at my expense. His pleasantries
had a great success among my old friends. Such measureless
ingratitude as this completely crushed me. One
only, and he a mere acquaintance, hearing that I was
in difficulties, hastened to me with these words:</p>

<p>"'We have had some little transactions together; I
think you will find here the correct balance in your
favor. Please look up the matter in your books and see
if I am right.'</p>

<p>"He is dead long since. Honor to his memory, and
may the blessings of an old man descend upon his children!</p>

<p>"The inevitable day was close at hand, and even had
I had the heart to make further struggle nothing could
save me. My friends and enemies alike were intriguing
for the spoils. I lowered my head before the storm and
resigned.</p>

<p>"I will not sadden you with the story of all I suffered;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">147</a></span>
suffice to say that, fallen into the claws of pitiless
creditors, I drank the cup of bitterness to the dregs.
Apart from the ingratitude of my friends, I was not the
sort of man to grieve greatly over my mere personal misfortunes.
Even within the walls of the Bastille my gayety
would not have deserted me; I might have danced
to the grim music of the grating of my bolts. But my
family! my family! Oh, the gnawing remorse which
<ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'harrasses'">harasses</ins> the day, which haunts the long sleepless night,
which suffers you neither forgetfulness nor rest, which
wrenches the nerves of one's heart as with pincers of
steel!</p>

<p>"I believe, my boy, that with a few exceptions every
man who can do so pays his debts; the torments he endures
at the sight of his creditor would constrain him to
this, even without the terrors of the law. Glance through
the ancient and modern codes, and you will be struck
with the barbarous egotism which has dictated them all
alike. Can one imagine, indeed, any punishment more
humiliating than that of a debtor kept face to face with
his creditor, who is often a skinflint to whom he must
cringe with fearful deference? Can anything be more
degrading than to be obliged to keep dodging a creditor?</p>

<p>"It has always struck me that civilization warps
men's judgment, and makes them inferior to primitive
races in mere common sense and simple equity. Let
me give you an amusing instance. Some years ago, in
New York, an Iroquois was gazing intently at a great,
forbidding structure. Its lofty walls and iron-bound
windows interested him profoundly. It was a prison.
A magistrate came up.</p>

<p>"'Will the pale face tell his brother what this great
wigwam is for?' asked the Indian. The citizen swelled
out his chest and answered with an air of importance:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">148</a></span></p>

<p>"'It is there we shut up the red-skins who refuse to
pay the furs which they owe our merchants.'</p>

<p>"The Iroquois examined the structure with ever-increasing
interest, walked around it, and asked to see
the inside of this marvelous wigwam. The magistrate,
who was himself a merchant, was glad to grant his request,
in the hope of inspiring with wholesome dread
the other savages, to whom this one would not fail to
recount the effective and ingenious methods employed
by the pale faces to make the red-skins pay their debts.</p>

<p>"The Iroquois went over the whole building with
the minutest care, descended into the dungeons, tried
the depth of the wells, listened attentively to the smallest
sounds, and at last burst out laughing.</p>

<p>"'Why,' exclaimed he, 'no Indian could catch any
beaver here.'</p>

<p>"In five minutes the Indian had found the solution
of a problem which civilized man has not had the common
sense to solve in centuries of study. This simple
and unlearned man, unable to comprehend such
folly on the part of a civilized race, had naturally concluded
that the prison had subterranean canals communicating
with streams and lakes where beaver were
abundant, and that the savages were shut up therein in
order to facilitate their hunting of the precious animals,
and the more prompt satisfaction of their creditors'
claims. These walls and iron gratings seemed to him
intended for the guarding of the treasure within.</p>

<p>"You understand, Jules, that I am speaking to you
now on behalf of the creditor, who gets all the sympathy
and pity, and not on behalf of the debtor who, with
his dread and suspicion ever before his eyes, gnaws his
pillow in despair after watering it with his tears.</p>

<p>"I was young, only thirty-three years of age. I had
ability, energy, and a sturdy faith in myself. I said to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">149</a></span>
my creditors, take all I have but leave me free, and I
will devote every energy to meeting your claims. If
you imprison me you wrong yourselves. Simple as was
this reasoning, it was incomprehensible to civilized man.
My Iroquois would have understood it well enough.
He would have said: 'My brother can take no beaver
if the pale face ties his hands.' My creditors, however,
took no account of such simple logic as this, and have
held the sword of Damocles over my head for thirty
years, the limit allowed them by the laws of France."</p>

<p>"What adorable stupidity!" cried Jules.</p>

<p>"One of them, however," continued M. d'Egmont,
"with a delightful ingenuity of torture, obtained a warrant
for my arrest, and with a refinement of cruelty
worthy of Caligula himself, did not put it in execution
till eighteen months later. Picture me for those
eighteen months, surrounded by my family, who had to
see me trembling at every noise, shuddering at the sight
of every stranger who might prove to be the bearer of
the order for my imprisonment.</p>

<p>"So unbearable was my suspense that twice I sought
out my creditor and besought him to execute his warrant
without delay. At last he did so, at his leisure. I
could have thanked him on my knees. From behind
my bars I could defy the malice of men.</p>

<p>"During the first month of his captivity the prisoner
experiences a feverish restlessness, a need of continual
movement. He is like a caged lion. After this time of
trial, this feverish disquiet, I attained in my cell the
calm of one who after being tossed violently by a storm
at sea, feels no longer anything more than the throb of
the subsiding waves; for apart from the innumerable
humiliations of imprisonment, apart from my grief for
my family, I was certainly less wretched. I believed
that I had drunk the last drop of gall from the cup<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">150</a></span>
which man holds to his brother's fevered lips. I was
reckoning without the hand of God, which was being
made heavy for the insensate fool who had wrought his
own misfortune. Two of my children, at two different
periods, fell so dangerously ill that the doctors gave them
up and daily announced to me that the end was near.
It was then I felt the weight of my chains. It was then
I learned to cry, like the mother of Christ, 'Approach
and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow.' I
was separated from my children only by the breadth of a
street. During the long night watches I could perceive
the stir about their couch, the lights moving from one
room to another; and I trembled every moment lest the
stillness should fall which would proclaim them no longer
in need of a mother's care. I blush to confess that
I was sometimes tempted to dash my life out against the
bars.</p>

<p>"Meanwhile my persecutor knew as well as I what
was passing in my family. But pity is fled from the
breast of man to take refuge in brute beasts that have
no understanding. The lamb bleats sadly when one of
his companions is slaughtered, the ox bellows with rage
and pain when he smells the blood of his kind, the
horse snorts sharply and utters his doleful and piercing
cry at the sight of his fellow struggling in the final
agony, the dog howls with grief when his master is sick;
but with whisperings and gossip and furtive pleasantry
man follows his brother to the grave.</p>

<p>"Lift up your head in your pride, lord of creation!
You have the right to do so. Lift your haughty head
to heaven, O man whose heart is as cold as the gold
you grasp at day and night! Heap your slanders with
both hands on the man of eager heart, of ardent passions,
of blood burning like fire, who has fallen in his
youth! Hold high your head, proud Pharisee, and say,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">151</a></span>
'As for me, I have never fallen!'" "The good gentleman"
pressed his hands to his heart, kept silent for
some minutes, and at length resumed:</p>

<p>"Pardon me, my son, that, carried away by the memory
of my sufferings, I have spoken the whole bitterness
of my heart. It was but seven days after the coming of
his friends when the great Arabian poet Job, the singer
of so many sorrows, broke out with this heart-rending
cry, '<i>Pereat dies in quâ natus sum!</i>' As for me, these
fifty years have I buried my lamentations in my heart,
and you will pardon me if I have spoken now with bitterness,
if I have calumniated mankind.</p>

<p>"As I had long ago given up to my creditors all
that I possessed, and had sold my real estate and personal
property for their benefit, after four years' imprisonment
I petitioned the King for my release. The
Government was of the opinion that I had suffered
enough, but there remained one great difficulty&mdash;when
a debtor has given up everything, does anything yet remain?
The question was a knotty one. Nevertheless,
after long debate, it was decided in the negative, and
very politely they showed me the door.</p>

<p>"My future was broken, like my heart, and I had
nothing to do but vegetate without profit to myself or
others. But observe the fatality that pursued me. When
making my surrender to my creditors I begged them to
leave me a certain property of very small immediate
value, which I foresaw that I might turn to good account.
I promised that whatever I could make out of
it should go to wiping out the debt. They laughed me
in the face; and very naturally, for there was a beaver
to catch. Well, Jules, this same property, which brought
hardly enough to cover costs of sale, sold ten years later
for a sum which would have covered all my debts and
more.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">152</a></span></p>

<p>"Europe was now too populous for me, and I embarked
with my faithful André for New France. I
chose out this peaceful dwelling place, where I might
have lived happily could I have drunk the waters of
Lethe. The ancients, our superiors in point of imagination,
knew the needs of the human heart when they
created that stream. Long tainted with the errors of the
sixteenth century, I used once to cry in my pride, 'O
men, if I have shared your vices, I have found few
among you endowed with even one of my virtues.'
But religion has taught me to know myself better, and
I have humbled myself beneath God's hand, convinced
at length that I could claim but little credit for merely
following the inclinations of my nature.</p>

<p>"You are the only one, Jules, to whom I have hinted
the story of my life, suppressing the cruelest episodes
because I know the tenderness of your heart. My end
is attained; let us now go and finish the evening
with my faithful André, who will keenly appreciate this
attention on the eve of your departure."</p>

<p>When they re-entered the house André was making
up a bed on a sofa, a piece of furniture which was the
result of the combined skill of master and man. This
sofa, of which they were both very proud, had one leg
shorter than the others, but this little inconvenience was
remedied with the aid of a chip.</p>

<p>"This sofa," said "the good gentleman," with an air
of pride, "has cost André and me more elaborate calculations
than Perrault required for the construction of the
Louvre; but we accomplished it at last to our satisfaction.
One leg, to be sure, presents arms to all comers.
But what work is perfect? You must have remembered,
my <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'Andre'">André</ins>, that this camp-bed was to be a soldiers'
couch."</p>

<p>André, though not quite relishing this pleasantry,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">153</a></span>
which jarred a little on his vanity, nevertheless could
not help laughing.</p>

<p>Late in the evening M. d'Egmont handed Jules a
little silver candlestick exquisitely wrought.</p>

<p>"There, my dear boy, is all that my creditors have
left me of my ancient fortune. They intended it, I suppose,
to solace my sleepless nights. Good-night, dear
boy; one sleeps well at your age; and when, after my
prayers beneath the vault of that great temple which is
forever declaring the glory of God, I once more come
under my roof, you will be deep in your slumbers."</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">154</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">MADAME D'HABERVILLE'S STORY.</span></h2>
</div>

<p class="center">
Saepè malum hoc nobis, si mens non læva fuisset,<br />
De c&oelig;lo tactas memini praedicere quercus.</p>

<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Virgil.</span><br />
</p>

<p>All was silence and gloom at D'Haberville Manor;
the very servants went about their work with a spiritless
air, far unlike their usual gayety. Madame D'Haberville
choked back her tears that she might not add to her
husband's grief, and Blanche, for her mother's sake, did
her weeping in secret; for in three days the vessel was
to set sail. Captain D'Haberville had bidden his two
friends, the priest and M. d'Egmont, to meet Jules
and Archie at a farewell dinner. At this meal every
one strove to be cheerful, but the attempt was a conspicuous
failure. The priest, wisely concluding that
a sober conversation would be better than the sorrowful
silence into which the party was continually dropping,
introduced a subject which was beginning to press on
all thoughtful minds.</p>

<p>"Do you know, gentlemen," said he, "that a storm
is gathering dark on the horizon of New France. The
English are making tremendous preparations, and everything
seems to indicate an early attack."</p>

<p>"And then?" exclaimed Uncle Raoul.</p>

<p>"Then, whatever you like, my dear chevalier,"
answered the curé; "but it must be acknowledged that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">155</a></span>
we have hardly forces enough at our command to long
resist our powerful neighbors."</p>

<p>"My dear abbé," exclaimed Uncle Raoul, "I think
that in your reading this morning you must have
stumbled on a chapter of the lamentations of Jeremiah."</p>

<p>"I might turn your weapon against yourself," retorted
the priest, "by reminding you that those prophecies
were fulfilled."</p>

<p>"No matter," almost shouted Uncle Raoul, clinching
his teeth. "The English, indeed! The English
take Canada! By heaven, I would undertake to defend
Quebec with my crutch. You forget, it seems, that we
have always beaten the English; that we have beaten
them against all odds&mdash;five to one&mdash;ten to one&mdash;sometimes
twenty to one! The English, indeed!"</p>

<p>"<i>Concedo</i>," said the curé; "I am ready to grant all
you claim, and more too if you like. But mark this.
We grow weaker and weaker with every victory, while
the enemy, thanks to the foresight of England, rises
with new strength from each defeat; meanwhile, France
leaves us to our own resources."</p>

<p>"Which shows," exclaimed Captain D'Haberville,
"the faith our King reposes in our courage."</p>

<p>"Meanwhile," interposed M. d'Egmont, "he sends
us so few soldiers that the colony grows weaker day
by day."</p>

<p>"Give us but plenty of powder and lead," answered
the captain, "and a hundred of my militia will do more
in such a war as that which is coming upon us&mdash;a war
of reconnoitrings, ambuscades, and surprises&mdash;than would
five hundred of the best soldiers of France. I speak
from experience. For all that, however, we stand in
great need of help from the mother country. Would
that a few of those battalions which our beloved monarch<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">156</a></span>
pours into the north of Europe to fight the battles
of Austria, might be devoted to the defense of the colony."</p>

<p>"You might rather wish," said "the good gentleman,"
"that Louis XV had left Maria Theresa to fight it out
with Prussia, and had paid a little more attention to
New France."</p>

<p>"It is perhaps hardly becoming in a young man like
me," said Lochiel, "to mix myself up in your arguments;
but, to make up for my lack of experience, I
will call history to my aid. Beware of the English,
beware of a government ever alive to the interests of its
colonies, which it identifies with the interests of the empire;
beware of a nation which has the tenacity of the
bull-dog. If the conquest of Canada is necessary to her
she will never swerve from her purpose or count the
sacrifice. Witness my unhappy country."</p>

<p>"Bah!" cried Uncle Raoul, "the Scotch, indeed!"</p>

<p>Lochiel began to laugh.</p>

<p>"Gently, my dear Uncle Raoul," said "the good gentleman";
"and, to make use of your favorite maxim
when you are collecting the rents, let us render unto
Cæsar that which is Cæsar's. I have studied the history
of Scotland, and I can assure you that neither in
valor nor in patriotism need the Scotch yield place to
any other nation, ancient or modern."</p>

<p>"Oh, you see, I only wanted to tease this other
nephew of mine," exclaimed Uncle Raoul, swelling his
chest; "for we know a little history ourselves, thank
God. No one knows better than Archie my esteem for
his fellow-countrymen, and my admiration for their dashing
courage."</p>

<p>"Yes, dear uncle, and I thank you for it," said Archie,
grasping him by the hand; "but distrust the English<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">157</a></span>
profoundly. Beware of their perseverance, and remember
the <i>Delenda est Carthago</i> of the Romans."</p>

<p>"So much the better," said Jules. "I will be grateful
to their perseverance if it brings me back to Canada
with my regiment. May I do my first fighting against
them here, on this soil of Canada, which I love and
which holds all that is dearest to me! You shall come
with me, my brother, and shall take revenge in this new
world for all that you have suffered in your own country."</p>

<p>"With all my heart," cried Archie, grasping the handle
of his knife as if it were the terrible claymore of the
Camerons. "I will serve as a volunteer in your company,
if I can not get a commission as an officer; and
the simple soldier will be as proud of your exploits as if
he had a hand in them himself."</p>

<p>The young men warmed into excitement at the
thought of heroic deeds; the great black eyes of Jules
shot fire, and the old warlike ardor of the race suddenly
flamed out in him. This spirit was infectious, and from
all lips came the cry of <i>Vive le Roi</i>! From the eyes of
mother, sister, and aunt, in spite of all their efforts to
restrain them, there escaped a few tears silently.</p>

<p>The conversation became eager. Campaigns were
planned, the English were beaten by sea and land,
and Canada was set upon a pinnacle of splendor and
prosperity.</p>

<p>"Fill up your glasses," cried Captain D'Haberville,
pouring himself out a bumper. "I am going to propose
a health which everybody will drink with applause:
'Success to our arms; and may the glorious flag of the
<i>fleur-de-lys</i> float forever over every fortress of New
France!'"</p>

<p>Just as they were raising the glasses to their lips
a terrific report was heard. It was like a stupendous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">158</a></span>
clap of thunder, or as if some huge body had
fallen upon the manor house, which shook to its very
foundations. Every one rushed out of doors. The
sun was shining with all the brilliance of a perfect day
in July. They scaled the roof, but there was no sign
anywhere that the house had been struck. Every one
was stupefied with awe, the seigneur himself appearing
particularly impressed. "Can it be," he exclaimed,
"that this phenomenon presages the fall of my house!"</p>

<p>In vain did M. d'Egmont, the priest, and Uncle
Raoul endeavor to refer the phenomenon to ordinary
causes; they could not remove the painful impression it
had left. The glasses were left unemptied in the dining-room,
and the little company passed into the drawing-room
to take their coffee.</p>

<p>What took place afterward only confirmed the D'Haberville
family in their superstitious fears. Who knows,
after all, whether such omens, to which the ancient
world lent implicit belief, may not indeed be warnings
from heaven when some great evil threatens us? If, indeed,
we must reject all that our feeble reason comprehends
not, we should speedily become Pyrrhonists, utter
skeptics, like Molière's Marphorius. Who knows?
But one might write a whole chapter on this "who
knows."</p>

<p>The weather, which had been so fine all day, began
to cloud up toward six o'clock in the evening. By seven
the rain fell in torrents; the thunder seemed to shatter
the vault of heaven, and a great mass of rock, struck by
a thunder-bolt, fell from the bluff with terrific noise and
obliterated the highway.</p>

<p>Captain D'Haberville, who had carried on an immense
deal of forest warfare along with his Indian allies,
had become tinctured with many of their superstitions;
and when the disasters of 1759 fell upon him, he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">159</a></span>
convinced that they had been foretold to him two years
before.</p>

<p>Jules, seated at supper between his mother and sister
and holding their hands in his, shared in their depression.
In order to turn their thoughts into another
channel, he asked his mother to tell one of those stories
with which she used to amuse his childhood.</p>

<p>"It would give me," said he, "yet another memory
of the tenderest of mothers to take with me to Europe."</p>

<p>"I can refuse my boy nothing," said Madame D'Haberville;
and she began the following story:</p>

<p>"A mother had an only child, a little girl, fair as a
lily, whose great blue eyes wandered from her mother
to heaven and back from heaven to her mother, only to
fix themselves on heaven at last. How proud and happy
was this loving mother when every one praised the
beauty of her child! Her cheeks like the rose just
blown, her tresses fair and soft as the beaten flax and
falling over her shoulders in gracious waves! Immeasurably
happy was this good mother.</p>

<p>"At last she lost the child she idolized; and, like
Rachel, she would not be comforted. She passed her
days in the cemetery embracing the little grave. Mad
with grief, she kept calling to the child with ceaseless
pleadings:</p>

<p>"'My darling! my darling! listen to your mother,
who is come to carry you to your own bed, where you
shall sleep so warmly! Oh, how cold you must be under
the wet sod!'</p>

<p>"She kept her ear close to the earth, as if she expected
a response. She trembled at every slightest noise,
and sobbed to discover that it was but the murmur of the
weeping willow moved by the breeze. The passers-by
used to say: 'This grass, so incessantly watered by her
weeping, should be always green; but her tears are so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">160</a></span>
bitter that they wither it, even like the fierce sun of midday
after a heavy shower.'</p>

<p>"She wept beside a brook where the little one had
been accustomed to play with pebbles, and in whose
pure stream she had so often washed the little feet. The
passers-by used to say:</p>

<p>"'This mother sheds so many tears that she swells
the current of the stream!'</p>

<p>"She nursed her grief in every room wherein the little
one had played. She opened the trunk in which she
kept religiously all the child's belongings&mdash;its clothes,
its playthings, the little gold-lined cup of silver from
which she had last given it to drink. Passionately she
kissed the little shoes, and her sobs would have melted
a heart of steel.</p>

<p>"She went continually to the village church to pray,
to implore God to work one miracle in her behalf, and
give her back her child. And the voice of God seemed
to answer her:</p>

<p>"'Like David you shall go to her, but she shall not
return to you.'</p>

<p>"Then she would cry:</p>

<p>"'When, Lord, when shall such joy be mine?'</p>

<p>"She threw herself down before the image of the
blessed Virgin, our Lady of Sorrows; and it seemed to
her that the eyes of the Madonna rested upon her sadly,
and that she read in them these words:</p>

<p>"'Endure with patience, even as I have done, O
daughter of Eve, till the day when your mourning shall
be turned into gladness.'</p>

<p>"And the unhappy mother cried anew:</p>

<p>"'But when, when will that blessed day come, O
Mother of God?'</p>

<p>"One day the wretched mother, having prayed with
more than her usual fervor, having shed, if possible,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">161</a></span>
more tears than was her wont, fell asleep in the church,
exhausted with her grief. The sexton shut the doors
without noticing her. It must have been about midnight
when she awoke. A ray of moonlight illuminating
the altar revealed to her that she was yet in the church.
Far from being terrified, she rather rejoiced at her situation,
if such a thing as joy could be said to find any
place in her sad heart.</p>

<p>"'Now,' said she, 'I can pray alone with God, alone
with the Blessed Virgin, alone with myself!'</p>

<p>"Just as she was going to kneel down a low sound
made her raise her head.</p>

<p>"She saw an old man, who, entering by one of the
side doors of the sacristy, made his way to the altar
with a lighted taper in his hand. She saw with astonishment
that it was the former sexton, dead twenty years
before. She felt no fear at the sight, for every sentiment
of her breast had been swallowed up in grief.
The specter climbed the altar steps, lighted the candles,
and made the customary preparations for the celebration
of a <i>requiem</i> mass. When he turned she saw that
his eyes were fixed and expressionless, like those of a
statue. He re-entered the sacristy, but reappeared almost
at once, followed this time by a venerable priest
bearing a chalice and clothed in full vestments. His
great eyes, wide open, were filled with sadness; his
movements were like those of an automaton. She recognized
the old priest, twenty years dead, who had
baptized her and given her her first communion. Far
from being terrified by this marvel, the poor mother,
wrapped up in her sorrow, concluded that her old friend
had been touched by her despair, and had broken the
bonds of the sepulchre for her sake.</p>

<p>"All was somber, grim, and silent in this mass thus
celebrated and ministered by the dead. The candles<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">162</a></span>
cast a feeble light like that of a dying lamp. At the moment
when the bell of the '<i>Sanctus</i>,' striking with a dull
sound, as when a bone is broken by the grave-digger in
some old cemetery, announced the descent of Christ
upon the altar, the door of the sacristy opened anew
and admitted a procession of little children, marching
two and two, who traversed the choir and filed into the
space to the right of the altar. These children, the oldest
of whom had had scarce six years of life upon
earth, wore crowns of immortelles and carried in their
hands, some of them baskets of flowers, some of them little
vases of perfume, others cups of gold and silver filled
with a transparent liquid. They stepped lightly, and a
celestial rapture shone upon their faces. One only, a
little girl at the end of the procession, appeared to follow
the others painfully, loaded down as she was with
two great jars which she could hardly drag. Her little
feet, reddening under the pressure, were lifted heavily,
and her crown of immortelles seemed withered. The
poor mother strove to reach out her arms, to utter a cry
of joy on recognizing her own little one, but she found
that she could neither move nor speak. She watched
all the children file past her into the place to the left of
the altar, and she recognized several who had but lately
died. When her own child, bending under her burden,
passed before her, she noticed that at every step the two
jars besprinkled the floor with the water that filled
them to the brim. When the little one's eyes met those
of her mother, she saw in their depths a mingling of
sadness, tenderness, and reproach. The poor woman
strove to clasp her in her arms, but sight and consciousness
alike fled from her. When she recovered from her
swoon the church was empty.</p>

<p>"In a monastery about a league from the village,
dwelt a monk who was renowned for his sanctity.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">163</a></span></p>

<p>"This old man never left his cell, save to listen with
sympathy to the bitter confessions of sinners, or to succor
the afflicted. To the first he said:</p>

<p>"'I know the corruptness of man's nature, so be not
cast down; come to me with confidence and courage
every time you fall, and my arms shall ever be open to
lift you up again.'</p>

<p>"To the second he said: 'Since God, who is so
good, lays this burden upon you now, he is reserving
you for infinite joys hereafter.'</p>

<p>"To all he said: 'If I should confess to you the
story of my life, you would be astonished to behold in
me a man who has been the sport of unbridled passion,
and my misfortunes would melt you to tears.'</p>

<p>"The poor mother threw herself sobbing at his feet,
and told him the marvelous thing she had seen. The
compassionate old man, who had sounded the depths of
the human heart, beheld here a favorable opportunity
to set bounds to this excessive anguish.</p>

<p>"'My dear child,' said he, 'our overwrought imagination
often cheats us with illusions which must be relegated
to the realms of dream. Nevertheless, the Church
teaches us that such marvels can really take place. It
is not for us in our ignorance to set limit to the power
of God. It is not for us to question the decrees of Him
who took the worlds into his hand and launched them
into space. I accept, then, the vision, and I will explain
it to you. This priest, coming from the tomb to say a
mass, doubtless obtained God's permission to fulfill part
of his sacred ministry which he had left undone; and
the sexton, by forgetfulness or negligence, was probably
the cause of his omission. The children crowned
with immortelles are those who died with their baptismal
grace unimpaired. They who carried baskets of
flowers or vases of perfume are those whose mothers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">164</a></span>
gave them up to God with holy resignation, comforted
by the thought that they were exchanging this world
of pain for the celestial country and the ineffable light
about the throne. In the little cups of gold and silver
were the tears of mothers who, though torn by the anguish
of their loss yet taught themselves to cry: "The
Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the
name of the Lord."'</p>

<p>"On her knees the poor mother drank in the old
man's words. As Martha exclaimed at the feet of Christ,
'Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not
died. But I know that even now, whatever thou wilt
ask of God, God will give it thee,' even so the poor
mother cried in her ardent faith, 'If thou hadst been
with me, my father, my little one would not have died;
but I know that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of
God, God will give it thee.'</p>

<p>"The good monk reflected a moment and prayed
God for wisdom. It was a sentence of life or of death
that he was about to pronounce upon this mother who
appeared inconsolable. He was about to strike a blow
which should either restore her to reason or break her
heart forever. He took her hands in his withered and
trembling clasp, and said gently:</p>

<p>"'You loved, then, this child whom you have
lost?'</p>

<p>"'Loved her? My God, what a question!' And
she threw herself moaning at his feet. Then, raising
herself suddenly, she grasped the skirt of his cassock
and besought him through her sobs: 'You are a saint,
my father; oh, give me back my child&mdash;my darling!'</p>

<p>"'Yes,' said the monk, 'you loved your little one.
Doubtless you would have done much to spare her even
the lightest grief?'</p>

<p>"'Anything, everything, my father!' exclaimed the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">165</a></span>
poor woman; 'I would have been rolled on the hot
coals to spare her a little burn.'</p>

<p>"'I believe you,' said the monk; 'and doubtless
you love her yet?'</p>

<p>"'Do I love her? Merciful Heaven!' cried the
wretched mother, springing to her feet as if bitten by a
serpent; 'I see, priest, that you know little of a mother's
love if you imagine death can efface it.' And trembling
from head to foot, she burst again into a torrent of
tears.</p>

<p>"'Begone, woman,' said the old man, forcing himself
to speak with sternness; 'begone, woman, who hast
come to impose upon me; begone, woman, who liest to
God and to his priest. Thou hast seen thy little one
staggering under the burden of thy tears, which she
gathers drop by drop, and thou tellest me that thou
lovest her! She is near thee now, toiling at her task;
and thou sayest that thou lovest her! Begone, woman,
for thou liest to God and to his minister!'</p>

<p>"The eyes of the poor woman were opened as if she
were awaking from a frightful dream. She confessed
that her grief had been insensate, and she besought the
pardon of God.</p>

<p>"'Go in peace,' said the old man; 'resign yourself
to God's will, and the peace of God will be shed upon
your soul.'</p>

<p>"Some days after, she told the good monk that her
little one, radiant with joy and carrying a basket of
flowers, had appeared to her in a dream and thanked
her for having ceased from her tears. The good woman,
who was rich in this world's goods, devoted the rest of
days and her substance to charity. To the children of
the poor she gave most loving attention, and adopted
several of them. When she died they wrote upon her
tomb, 'Here lies the mother of the orphans.'"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">166</a></span></p>

<p>All were deeply moved by Madame D'Haberville's
story, and some were even in tears. Jules embraced
his mother, and left the room to hide his emotion.</p>

<p>"O God," he cried, "guard this life of mine! for if
evil should befall me, my loving mother would be as inconsolable
as the mother in the story she has just told
us."</p>

<p>A day or two later Jules and Archie were tossing
upon the Atlantic; and at the end of two months, after
a prosperous voyage, they reached the shores of France.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">167</a></span></p>

<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">THE BURNING OF THE SOUTH SHORE.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">They came upon us in the night,<br />
And brake my bower and slew my knight:<br />
My servant a' for life did flee<br />
And left us in the extremitie.<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="stanza">They slew my knight, to me so dear;<br />
They slew my knight, and drove his gear;<br />
The moon may set, the sun may rise,<br />
But a deadly sleep has closed his eyes.</div></div></div>

<p class="right"><i>Waverley.</i>
</p>

<p>The trees were once more clothed in their wonted
green after the passing of a northern winter. The
woods and fields were enameled in a thousand colors,
and the birds were raising their cheerful voices to greet
the spring of the year 1759. All Nature smiled; only
man seemed sorrowful and cast down; and the laborer
no more lifted his gay song, and the greater portion of
the lands lay fallow for lack of hands to till them. A
cloud hung over all New France, for the mother country,
a veritable step-mother, had abandoned her Canadian
children. Left to its own resources, the Government
had called to arms every able-bodied man to defend the
colony against the invasion that menaced it. The English
had made vast preparations. Their fleet, consisting
of twenty ships of the line, ten frigates, and eighteen
smaller vessels, accompanied by a number of transports,
and carrying eighteen thousand men, was ascending the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">168</a></span>
St. Lawrence under the command of General Wolfe;
while two land armies, yet more numerous, were moving
to effect a junction under the very walls of Quebec.</p>

<p>The whole adult population of Canada capable of
bearing arms had responded with ardor to their country's
appeal; and there remained at home none but the old
and feeble, the women and the children. To resist an
army more numerous than the entire population of New
France the Canadians had little but the memory of past
exploits, and of their glorious victory at Carillon in the
preceding year. Of what avail their proved courage
against an enemy so overpowering and sworn to their
defeat?</p>

<p>You have long been misunderstood, my brethren of
old Canada! Most cruelly have you been slandered.
Honor to them who have lifted your memory from the
dust! Honor, a hundred times honor, to our fellow-countryman,
M. Garneau, who has rent the <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'vail'">veil</ins> that
covered your exploits! Shame to us who, instead of
searching the ancient and glorious annals of our race,
were content to bow before the reproach that we were
a conquered people! Shame to us who were almost
ashamed to call ourselves Canadians! Dreading to confess
ourselves ignorant of the history of Assyrians,
Medes, and Persians, that of our own country remained
a sealed book to us.</p>

<p>Within the last few years there has come a glorious
reaction. Every one sets his hand to the work and the
Canadian can now say with Francis I, "All is lost save
honor." I am far from believing, however, that all is
lost. The cession of Canada was, perhaps, a blessing in
disguise; for the horrors of '93 failed to touch this fortunate
colony which was protected by the flag of Britain.
We have gathered new laurels, fighting beneath the banner
of England; and twice has the colony been saved to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">169</a></span>
England by the courage of her new subjects. In Parliament,
at the bar, upon the field of battle, everywhere in
his small sphere, the French Canadian has proved himself
inferior to none. For a century have you struggled,
O my countrymen, to preserve your nationality, and
you behold it yet intact. The future perhaps holds for
you another century of effort and struggle to guard it.
Take heart and stand together, fellow-countrymen.</p>

<p>Two detachments of the English army were disembarked
at Rivière Ouelle, at the beginning of June, '79.
Some of the <i>habitants</i> of the parish, concealed in the
skirts of the wood, received them with a sharp fire and
killed several men. The commander, exasperated at
this loss, resolved to take signal vengeance. The two
detachments ascended the river and encamped toward
evening beside a brook which empties in Bay Ste.
Anne, southwest of where the college now stands. On
the following morning the commander ordered one of
the companies to get ready to march, and summoning
the lieutenant gave him the following orders:</p>

<p>"Every house you come across belonging to these
dogs of Frenchmen, set fire to it. I will follow you a
little later."</p>

<p>"But," said the young officer, who was a Scotchman,
"must I burn the dwellings of those who offer no resistance?
They say there is no one left in these houses
except old men, women, and children."</p>

<p>"I think, sir," replied Major Montgomery, "that my
orders are quite clear. You will set fire to every house
belonging to these dogs of Frenchmen. I had forgotten
your weakness for our enemies."</p>

<p>The young man bit his lips till they bled, and
marched his men away. The reader has, doubtless,
recognized in this young man none other than Archie
de Lochiel, who, having made his peace with the British<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">170</a></span>
Government, had recovered possession of his estates and
had obtained a lieutenancy in a regiment which he had
himself recruited among the Highlanders of his own
clan. Archie marched off groaning and muttering all
the curses he could think of in English, Gaelic, and
French. At the first house where he stopped a young
woman flung herself weeping at his feet, crying piteously:</p>

<p>"Good sir, do not kill my poor old father. Do not
shorten his days. He has but a little while to live."</p>

<p>A little boy eleven or twelve years old grasped him
about the knees and exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Mister Englishman, do not kill grandpapa! If you
only knew how good he is!"</p>

<p>"Do not fear," said Archie, entering the house, "I
have no orders to kill old men, women, and children.
They doubtless supposed," he added bitterly, "that I
should meet none such on my route."</p>

<p>Stretched on a bed of pain lay a decrepit old man.</p>

<p>"I have been a soldier all my life, monsieur," said
he. "I do not fear death, with whom I have been often
face to face, but, in the name of God, spare my daughter
and her child!"</p>

<p>"They shall not be injured," replied Archie, with
tears in his eyes; "but if you are a soldier, you know
that a soldier has to obey orders. I am ordered to burn
all the buildings on my line of march, and I have to
obey. Whither shall we move you, father? Listen," he
added, speaking close in the old man's ear. "Your
grandson appears active and intelligent. Let him get a
horse and hasten to warn your fellow-countrymen that I
have to burn down all the houses on my road. They
will, perhaps, have time to save the most valuable of their
belongings."</p>

<p>"You are a good and brave young man!" cried the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">171</a></span>
old man. "If you were a Catholic I would give you my
blessing; but thank you a thousand times, thank you!"</p>

<p>"I am a Catholic," said Lochiel.</p>

<p>The old man raised himself with difficulty, lifted his
eyes toward heaven, spread his hands over Archie's
bended head, and cried: "May God bless you for this
act of humanity! In the day of heavy affliction, when
you implore the pity of Heaven, may God take count of
your compassion toward your enemies and give ear to
your prayers! Say to him then with confidence in the
sorest trials, 'I have the blessing of a dying old man,
my enemy.'"</p>

<p>The old man in his bed was hastily carried by the
soldiers to an adjoining wood, and when he resumed his
march Lochiel had the satisfaction of seeing the little
boy mounted on a swift horse and devouring the miles
beneath him. Archie breathed more freely at the sight.</p>

<p>The work of destruction went on; but from time to
time, whenever he reached the top of a hill, Archie had
the satisfaction of seeing old men, women, and children,
loaded down with their possessions, taking refuge in the
neighboring woods. If he wept for their misfortunes, he
rejoiced in his heart that he had done everything in his
power to mitigate them.</p>

<p>All the houses of a portion of Rivière Ouelle, and of
the parishes of Ste. Anne and St. Roch, along the edge
of the St. Lawrence, were by this time in ashes, yet there
came no order to cease from the work of destruction.
From time to time, on the contrary, Lochiel saw the
division of his superior officer, following in his rear,
come to a halt on a piece of rising ground, doubtless for
the purpose of permitting Major Montgomery to gloat
over the results of his barbarous order.</p>

<p>The first house of St. Jean-Port-Joli was that of a
rich <i>habitant</i>, a sergeant in Captain D'Haberville's company.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">172</a></span>
Frequently during his vacations had Archie
lunched at this house with Jules and his sister. With
what a pang he recalled the eager hospitality of these
people. On their arrival, Mother Dupont and her daughters
used to run to the dairy, the barn, the garden, for
eggs, butter, cream, parsley, and chervil, to make them
pancakes and herb omelettes. Father Dupont and his
sons would hasten to put up the horses and give them a
generous measure of oats. While Mother Dupont was
preparing the meal, the young people would make a hasty
toilet. Then they would get up a dance, and skip merrily
to the notes of the violin which screeched beneath
the old sergeant's bow. In spite of the remonstrances
of Blanche, Jules would turn everything upside down
and tease everybody to death. He would snatch the
frying-pan from the hands of Mother Dupont, throw his
arm around her waist, and compel her, in spite of her
struggles, to dance with him; and these good people
would shout with laughter till one would think they
could never get too much of the racket. All these
things Lochiel went over in the bitterness of his soul,
and a cold sweat broke out on his brow as he ordered
the burning of this hospitable home.</p>

<p>Almost all the houses in the first concession of St.
Jean-Port-Joli were by this time in ruins, yet there came
no order to desist. About sunset, however, coming to the
little river Port Joli, a few arpents from the D'Haberville
place, Lochiel took it upon himself to halt his
company. He climbed the hillside, and there, in sight
of the manor, he waited; he waited like a criminal upon
the scaffold, hoping against hope that a reprieve may
come at the last moment. His heart was big with tender
memories as he gazed upon the dwelling where for ten
years the exiled orphan had been received as a child of
the house. Sorrowfully he looked down on the silent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">173</a></span>
village which had been so full of life when last he saw
it. Some pigeons fluttering over the buildings and from
time to time alighting on the roofs appeared to be the
only living creatures about the manor. Sighing, he repeated
the words of Ossian:</p>

<p>"'Selma, thy halls are silent. There is no sound in
the woods of Morven. The wave tumbles alone in the
coast. The silent beam of the sun is on the field.'</p>

<p>"<i>Oh! Oui! Mes amis!</i>" cried Lochiel, in the language
that he loved, "<i>vos salons sont maintenant, hélas!
deserts et silencieux!</i> There is no sound upon this hill
which so lately was echoing your bright voices. I hear
only the ripples lapping upon the sand. One pale ray
from the setting sun is all that lights your meadows.</p>

<p>"What shall I do, kind Heaven, if the rage of the brute
who commands me is not yet sated? Should I refuse
to obey him? Then am I dishonored. A soldier can
not in time of war refuse to carry out the orders of his
commander. This brute could have me shot upon the
spot, and the shield of the Camerons would be forever
tarnished. Who would trouble himself to see that justice
was done to the memory of the soldier who chose
death rather than the stain of ingratitude? On the contrary,
that which was with me but an emotion of grateful
remembrance, would certainly be imputed to me
for treason by this creature who hounds me with his
devilish malice."</p>

<p>The harsh voice of Major Montgomery put an end
to these reflections.</p>

<p>"What are you doing here?" he growled.</p>

<p>"I have left my men by the edge of the river,
and was proposing to encamp there after our long
march."</p>

<p>"It is not late," answered the major, "and you know
the country better than I. You will easily find for your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">174</a></span>
encampment another place than that which I have just
chosen for myself."</p>

<p>"I will march at once," said Archie. "There is
another river about a mile from here where we can camp
for the night."</p>

<p>"Very well," said Montgomery, in an insolent voice;
"and as you have but a few more houses to burn in this
district, your men will soon be able to rest."</p>

<p>"It is true," said Lochiel, "for there remain but five
more dwellings. Two of these, however, the group of
buildings which you see yonder and a mill on the stream
where I am going to camp, belong to the Seigneur
D'Haberville, the man who during my exile took me in
and treated me as a son. For God's sake, Major Montgomery,
give the order yourself for their destruction!"</p>

<p>"I never should have believed," replied the major,
"that a British officer would have dared to utter treason."</p>

<p>"You forget, sir," said Archie, restraining himself
with difficulty, "that I was then a mere child. But once
more I implore you, in the name of all you hold most
dear, give the order yourself, and do not force upon me
the dishonor of setting the torch to the home of them
who in my days of adversity heaped me with benefits."</p>

<p>"I understand," replied the major, with a sneer,
"you wish to keep a way open to return to the favor of
your friends when occasion shall arise."</p>

<p>At this insulting sarcasm Archie was tempted for an
instant to draw his claymore and cry:</p>

<p>"If you are not as cowardly as you are insolent,
defend yourself, Major Montgomery!"</p>

<p>Happily, reason came to his aid. Instead of grasping
his sword, his hand directed itself mechanically
toward his breast, which he tore fiercely. Then he remembered
the words of the witch:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">175</a></span></p>

<p>"Keep your pity for yourself, Archibald de Lochiel,
when, forced to execute a barbarous order, your nails shall
tear that breast which covers, nevertheless, a noble heart."</p>

<p>"She was indeed taught of hell, that woman," thought
he, "when she uttered that prophecy to a Cameron of
Lochiel."</p>

<p>With malicious pleasure Montgomery watched for a
moment the strife of passions which tortured the young
man's heart. He gloated over his despair. Then, persuaded
that Archie would refuse to obey, he turned his
back upon him. Lochiel, perceiving his treacherous
design, hastened to rejoin his men, and a half-hour later
the buildings were in flames. Archie paused beside the
fountain where in happier days he had so often refreshed
himself with his friends; and from that spot his lynx-like
eyes discerned Montgomery, who had returned to
the hill-top, and there with folded arms stood feasting
on the cruel scene.</p>

<p>Foaming with rage at the sight of his enemy, Archie
cried:</p>

<p>"You have a good memory, Montgomery. You
have not forgotten the time when my ancestor beat your
grandfather with the flat of his saber in an Edinburgh
tavern. But I, also, have a good memory. I shall not
always wear this uniform that now ties my hands, and
sooner or later I will redouble the dose upon your own
shoulders, for you would be too much of a coward to
meet me in fair fight. A beast like you can not possess
even the one virtue of courage. Curse be you and all
your race! When you come to die may you be less
fortunate than those whose dwellings you have desolated
to-day, and may you have no place to lay your head!
May all the pangs of hell&mdash;"</p>

<p>Then, ashamed of the impotence of his rage, he
moved away with a groan.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">176</a></span></p>

<p>The mill upon the Trois-Saumons River was soon
but a heap of cinders, and the burning of Captain
D'Haberville's property in Quebec, which took place
during the <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'seige'">siege</ins>, was all that was needed to complete
his ruin.</p>

<p>After taking the necessary precautions for the safety
of his company, Archie directed his steps to the desolated
manor. There, seated on the summit of the bluff,
he gazed in the silence of anguish on the smoking ruins
at his feet. It must have been about nine o'clock. The
night was dark, and few stars revealed themselves in the
sky. Presently, however, he made out a living creature
wandering among the ruins. It was old Niger, who lifted
his head toward the bluff and began howling piteously.
Archie thought the faithful animal was reproaching him
with his ingratitude, and bitter tears scalded his cheeks.</p>

<p>"Behold," said he, "the fruits of what we call the
code of honor of civilized nations! Are these the fruits
of Christianity, that religion of compassion which teaches
us to love even our enemies? If my commander were
one of these savage chiefs, whom we treat as barbarians,
and I had said to him: 'Spare this house, for it belongs
to my friends. I was a wanderer and a fugitive, and
they took me in and gave me a father and a brother,' the
Indian chief would have answered: 'It is well; spare
your friends; it is only the viper that stings the bosom
that has warmed it.'</p>

<p>"I have always lived in the hope," went on Lochiel,
"of one day rejoining my Canadian friends, whom I love
to-day more than ever, if that were possible. No reconciliation
would have been required. It was natural I
should seek to regain my patrimony, so nearly dissipated
by the confiscations of the British Government. There
remained to me no career but the army, the only one
worthy of a Cameron. I had recovered my father's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">177</a></span>
sword, which one of my friends had bought back from
among the spoils of Culloden. Bearing this blade, which
had never known a stain, I dreamed of a glorious career.
I was grieved, indeed, when I learned that my regiment
was to be sent against New France; but a soldier could
not resign in time of war without disgrace. My friends
would have understood that. But what hope now for
the ingrate who has ravaged the hearth of his benefactors!
Jules D'Haberville, whom I once called my
brother, his gentle and saintly mother, who took me to
her heart, the fair girl whom I called my sister to hide
a deeper feeling&mdash;these will, perhaps, hear my justification
and end by forgiving me. But Captain D'Haberville,
who loves with all his heart, but who never forgives
an injury, can it be imagined that he will permit his
family to utter my name, unless to curse it?</p>

<p>"But I am a coward and a fool," continued Archie,
grinding his teeth, "I should have declared before my
men my reasons for refusing to obey, and, though Montgomery
had had me shot upon the spot, there would
have been found loyal spirits to approve my refusal and
to right my memory. I have been a coward and a fool,
for in case the major, instead of having me shot, had
tried me before a court-martial, even while pronouncing
my death sentence they would have appreciated my
motives. I would have been eloquent in the defense of
my honor, and of that noblest of human sentiments,
gratitude. Oh, my friends, would that you could see
my remorse! Coward, ten thousand times coward!&mdash;"</p>

<p>A voice near him repeated the words "Coward, ten
thousand times coward!" He thought at first it was
the echo from the bluff. He raised his head and perceived
the witch of the manor standing erect on a projecting
rock. She stretched out her hands over the
ruins, and cried: "Woe! woe! woe!" Then she descended<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">178</a></span>
like lightning, by a steep and dangerous path,
and wandered to and fro among the ruins, crying:
"Desolation! desolation! desolation!" At length she
raised her arm with a gesture of menace, pointed to the
summit of the bluff, and cried in a loud voice: "Woe to
you, Archibald de Lochiel!"</p>

<p>The old dog howled long and plaintively, then silence
fell upon the scene.</p>

<p>Archie's head sank upon his breast. The next moment
four savages sprang upon him, hurled him to the
ground, and bound his hands. These were four warriors
of the Abénaquis, who had been spying upon the
movements of the English ever since their landing at
Rivière Ouelle. Relying upon his tremendous strength,
Archie made desperate efforts to break his bonds. The
tough moose-hide which enwound his wrists in triple
coils stretched mightily, but resisted all his efforts. Seeing
this, Archie resigned himself to his fate, and followed
his captors quietly into the forest. His vigorous Scottish
legs spared him further ill treatment. Bitter were the
reflections of the captive during the rapid southward
march through the forest, wherein he had so often hunted
with his brother D'Haberville. Heedless of the fierce
delight of the Indians, whose eyes flashed at the sight of
his despair, he exclaimed:</p>

<p>"You have conquered, Montgomery; my curses recoil
upon my own head. You will proclaim that I have
deserted to the enemy, that I am a traitor as you long
suspected. You will rejoice indeed, for I have lost all,
even honor." And like Job, he cursed the day that he
was born.</p>

<p>After two hours' rapid marching they arrived at the
foot of the mountain which overlooks Trois Saumons
Lake, on which water Archie concluded that they would
find an encampment of the Abénaquis. Coming to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">179</a></span>
edge of the lake, one of his captors uttered three times
the cry of the osprey; and the seven echoes of the
mountain repeated, each three times, the piercing and
strident call of the great swan of Lower Canada. At
any other time Lochiel would have thrilled with admiration
at the sight of this beautiful water outspread beneath
the starlight, enringed with mountains and seeded
with green-crowned islets. It was the same lake to
which, for ten happy years, he had made hunting and
fishing excursions with his friends. It was the same
lake which he had swum at its widest part to prove his
prowess. But to-night all Nature appeared as dead as
the heart within him. From one of the islets came a
birch canoe, paddled by a man in Indian garb, but wearing
a cap of fox-skin. The new comer held a long conversation
with the four savages, but Archie was ignorant
of the Abénaquis tongue, and could make out nothing
of what they said. Two of the Indians thereupon started
off to the southwest; but Archie was put into the canoe
and taken to the islet.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">180</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">A NIGHT AMONG THE SAVAGES.</span></h2>
</div>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">What tragic tears bedew the eye!<br />
What deaths we suffer ere we die!<br />
Our broken friendships we deplore,<br />
And loves of youth that are no more.</div></div></div>

<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Logan.</span>
</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond<br />
Is substance; the reverse is folly's creed.<br />
How solid all where change shall be no more!<br /></div></div></div>

<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Young's</span> <i>Night Thoughts.</i>
</p>

<p>Having cursed his enemy and the day of his birth,
Lochiel had gradually come to a more Christian frame of
mind, as he lay bound to a tree and all hope banished
from his heart. He knew that the savages scarcely ever
spared their captives, and that a slow and hideous death
was in store for him. Recovering his natural force of
mind, he hardly took care to pray for his deliverance;
but he implored of Heaven forgiveness for his sins and
strength to bear the tortures that were before him. Of
what account, thought he, the judgment of men when
the dream of life is over? And he bowed himself beneath
the hand of God.</p>

<p>The three warriors were seated around within a
dozen feet of Lochiel, smoking in silence. The Indians
are naturally reserved, regarding light conversation as
only suitable to women and children. One of them,
however, by name Talamousse, speaking to the man of
the island, made inquiry:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">181</a></span></p>

<p>"Will my brother wait long here for the warriors
from the Portage?"</p>

<p>"Three days," answered the latter, lifting up three
fingers. "Grand-Loutre and Talamousse will depart
to-morrow with the prisoner. The Frenchman will rejoin
them at the encampment of Captain Launière."</p>

<p>"It is well," said Grand-Loutre, extending his hand
toward the south. "We are going to take the prisoner
to the camp at Petit-Marigotte, where we will wait three
days for my brother and the warriors from the Portage,
and then go to the camp of Captain Launière."</p>

<p>For the first time Lochiel perceived that the voice
of the man with the fox-skin cap was not like that of
the other two men, although he spoke their language
fluently. Hitherto he had suffered in silence the torments
of a burning thirst. It was a veritable torture of
Tantalus, with the crystal lake waters lapping at his
feet, but, under the impression that the man might be a
Frenchman, he made bold to say:</p>

<p>"If there is a Christian among you, for God's sake
let him give me a drink."</p>

<p>"What does the dog want?" said Grand-Loutre to
his companion.</p>

<p>The man addressed made no answer for some moments.
His whole body trembled, his face became pale
as death, a cold sweat bathed his forehead; then, controlling
himself sternly, he answered in his natural
voice:</p>

<p>"The prisoner asks for a drink."</p>

<p>"Tell the dog of an Englishman," said Talamousse,
"that he shall be burned to-morrow; and that if he is
very thirsty he shall have boiling water to drink."</p>

<p>"I am going to tell him," replied the Canadian presently,
"that my brothers permit me to give their captive
a little water."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">182</a></span></p>

<p>"Let my brother do as he will," said Talamousse;
"the pale faces have hearts like young girls."</p>

<p>The Canadian curled a piece of birch bark into the
form of a cup, filled it with fresh water, and handed it
to the prisoner, saying:</p>

<p>"Who are you, sir? In the name of God who are
you? Your voice is like that of a man who is very dear
to me."</p>

<p>"I am Archibald Cameron, of Lochiel," came the
answer, "once the friend of your countrymen; now
their enemy, and well deserving the fate which is in
store for him."</p>

<p>"Mr. Archie," replied Dumais, for he it was, "although
you had slain my brother, although it should be
necessary for me to cut down these two red rascals with
my tomahawk, in an hour you shall be free. I shall try
persuasion before resorting to violent measures. Now
silence."</p>

<p>Dumais resumed his place with the Indians, and
after a time he remarked:</p>

<p>"The prisoner thanks the red-skins for promising him
the death of a man; he says that the song of the pale
face will be that of a warrior."</p>

<p>"Houa!" said Grand-Loutre, "the Englishman will
screech like an owl when he sees the fires of our
wigwams." And he went on smoking and casting
glances of contempt upon Lochiel.</p>

<p>"The Englishman," said Talamousse, "speaks like
a man while the stake is yet far off. The Englishman is
a coward who could not suffer thirst. He has begged
his enemies for a drink like a baby crying for its mother."
And the Indian spit upon the ground contemptuously.</p>

<p>Dumais opened a wallet, took out some provisions,
and offered a portion to the savages, who refused to eat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">183</a></span>
Then he stepped into the woods, and after a short search
brought out a bottle of brandy. He took a drink and
began to eat. The eyes of one of the Indians dwelt
longingly on the bottle.</p>

<p>"Talamousse is not hungry, my brother," said he,
"but he is very thirsty. He has made a long march to-day
and he is very tired. The fire-water is good to rest
one's legs."</p>

<p>Dumais passed him the bottle. The Indian seized
it with a trembling hand and gulped down a good half
of the contents.</p>

<p>"Ah, but that's good," said he, handing back the
bottle; and presently his piercing eyes grew glazed, and
a vacant look began to creep into his face.</p>

<p>"Dumais does not offer any to his brother Grand-Loutre,"
said the Canadian; "he knows that he does
not drink fire-water."</p>

<p>"The Great Spirit loves Grand-Loutre," said the latter,
"and made him throw up the only mouthful of fire-water
he ever drank. The Great Spirit made him so
sick that he thought he was going to visit the country of
souls. Grand-Loutre is very thankful, for the fire-water
takes away man's wisdom."</p>

<p>"It is good fire-water," said Talamousse after a moment's
silence, stretching out his hand toward the bottle,
which Dumais removed from his reach. "Give me one
more drink, my brother, I beg you."</p>

<p>"No," said Dumais, "not now; by and by, perhaps."
And he put the bottle back into his knapsack.</p>

<p>"The Great Spirit also loves the Canadian," resumed
Dumais after a pause; "he appeared to him last night
in a dream."</p>

<p>"What did he say to my brother?" asked the Indians.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">184</a></span></p>

<p>"The Great Spirit told him to buy back the prisoner,"
answered Dumais.</p>

<p>"My brother lies like a Frenchman," replied Grand-Loutre.
"He lies like all the pale faces. The red-skins
do not lie to them."</p>

<p>"The French never lie when they speak of the Great
Spirit," said the Canadian; and, opening his knapsack,
he took a small sip of brandy.</p>

<p>"Give me, my brother, give me one little drink,"
said Talamousse, stretching out his hand.</p>

<p>"If Talamousse will sell me his share of the prisoner,"
said Dumais, "he shall have another drink."</p>

<p>"Give me all the fire-water," said Talamousse, "and
take my share of the English dog."</p>

<p>"No," said Dumais, "one more drink and that will
be all;" and he made a movement to put away the
bottle.</p>

<p>"Give it to me, then, and take my share of him."</p>

<p>He seized the bottle in both hands, took a long
pull at the precious fluid, and then fell asleep on the
grass.</p>

<p>"There's one of them fixed," thought Dumais.</p>

<p>Grand-Loutre had been watching all this with an
air of defiance, but had kept on smoking indifferently.</p>

<p>"Now will my brother sell me his share of the prisoner?"
asked Dumais.</p>

<p>"What do you want of him?" replied the savage.</p>

<p>"To sell him to Captain D'Haberville, who will have
him hung for burning his house. The prisoner will
endure like a warrior the tortures of the stake, but at
sight of the rope he will weep like a girl."</p>

<p>"My brother lies again," replied Grand-Loutre. "All
the English that we have burned cried out like cowards,
and not one of them sang his death-song like a man.
They would have thanked us to hang them. It is only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">185</a></span>
the red warrior who prefers the stake to the disgrace of
being hung like a dog."</p>

<p>"Let my brother heed my words," said Dumais.
"The prisoner is not an Englishman, but a Scotchman,
and the Scotch are the savages of the English. Let my
brother observe the prisoner's clothing, and see how like
it is to that of a savage warrior."</p>

<p>"That is true," said Grand-Loutre. "He does not
smother himself in clothes like the other soldiers whom
the Great Ononthio sends across the water. But what
has that to do with it?"</p>

<p>"Why," replied the Canadian, "a Scotch warrior
would rather be burned than be hung. Like the red-skins
of Canada, he considers that one hangs only dogs,
and that if he were to go to the country of souls with
the rope about his neck the savage warriors would refuse
to hunt with him."</p>

<p>"My brother lies again," said the Indian, shaking
his head incredulously. "The Scotch savages are nevertheless
pale faces, and they can not have the courage to
endure pain like a red-skin." And he went on smoking
thoughtfully.</p>

<p>"Let my brother hearken, and he will see that I
speak the truth," said Dumais.</p>

<p>"Speak, thy brother gives ear."</p>

<p>"The English and the Scotch," continued the Canadian,
"dwell in a great island beyond the great water.
The English dwell on the plains, while the Scotch inhabit
the mountains. The English are as many as the
grains of sand about the shores of this lake, while the
Scotch are but as the sands of this little island. Yet
the Scotch have withstood the English in war for as
many moons as there are leaves on this great maple.
The English are rich, the Scotch poor. When the
Scotch beat the English, they return to their mountains<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">186</a></span>
laden with booty; when the English beat the Scotch,
they get nothing. The profit is all on one side."</p>

<p>"If the English are so numerous," said Grand-Loutre,
"why do they not pursue their enemies into the
mountains and kill every man of them? They could
not escape, since, as my brother says, they live on the
same island."</p>

<p>"Houa!" cried Dumais, after the fashion of the
savages, "I will show my brother why. The Scotch
mountains are so high that if an army of young Englishmen
were to ascend them but half way, they would
be an army of graybeards before they got down again."</p>

<p>"The French are always tomfools," said the Indian.
"They can't do anything but talk nonsense. Soon they
will put on petticoats and go and sit with our squaws,
and amuse them with their funny stories. They never
talk seriously like men."</p>

<p>"My brother ought to understand," said Dumais,
"that what I said was merely to impress upon him the
remarkable height of the Scottish mountains."</p>

<p>"Let my brother continue. Grand-Loutre hears and
understands," said the Indian, accustomed to this figurative
style of speech.</p>

<p>"The Scotch legs are as strong as those of a moose
and active as those of a roebuck," continued Dumais.</p>

<p>"True," said the Indian, "if they are all like the
prisoner here, who, in spite of his bonds, kept right on
my heels all the way. He has the legs of an Indian."</p>

<p>"The English," said Dumais, "are large and strong,
but they have soft legs and huge bellies. When they
pursue their more active enemies into the mountains
the Scotchmen lie in ambush and kill them by the
score. The war seemed as if it would last forever.
When the English took prisoners they used to burn
many of them; but these would sing their death-song<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">187</a></span>
at the stake and heap insult on their torturers by telling
them that they had drunk out of the skulls of their
ancestors."</p>

<p>"Houa!" cried Grand-Loutre, "they are men these
Scotch."</p>

<p>"The Scotch had a great chief named Wallace, a
mighty warrior. When he set out for war the earth
trembled under his feet. He was as tall as yonder
fir-tree and as strong as an army. An accursed wretch
betrayed him for money, he was taken prisoner and sentenced
to be hung. At this news a cry of rage and
grief went up from all the mountains of Scotland. All
the warriors painted their faces black, a great council
was held, and ten chiefs bearing the pipe of peace set
out for England. They were conducted into a great
wigwam, the council fire was lighted, and for a long
time every one spoke in silence. At length an old
chief took up the word, and said: 'My brother, the
earth has drunk enough of the blood of these two great
nations, and we wish to bury the hatchet. Give us
back Wallace and we will remain hostages in his place.
You shall put us to death if ever again he lifts the
tomahawk against you.' With these words he handed
the pipe of peace to the Great Ononthio of the English,
who waved it aside, saying sternly, 'Within three days
Wallace shall be hung.' 'Listen my brother,' said the
great Scotch chief, 'if Wallace must die let him die the
death of a warrior. Hanging is a death for dogs.'
And again he presented the pipe of peace, and Ononthio
refused it. The deputies withdrew and consulted
together. On their return the great chief said: 'Let my
brother hearken favorably to my last words. Let him
fix eleven stakes to burn Wallace and these ten warriors,
who will be proud to share his fate and will thank
their brother for his clemency.' Once more he offered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">188</a></span>
the pipe of peace, and once more Ononthio rejected
it."</p>

<p>"Houa!" cried Grand-Loutre, "those were noble
and generous words. But my brother has not told me
how the Scotch are now friends with the English and
fighting against the French."</p>

<p>"With rage in their hearts, the deputies returned to
their mountains. At their death-cries, which they
uttered at the gate of every town and village to announce
the fate of Wallace, every one rushed to arms;
and the war between the two nations continued for as
many moons as there are grains of sand here in my
hand," said Dumais, picking up a handful. "The Scotch
were generally beaten by their swarming enemies, and
their rivers ran with blood, but they knew not how to
yield. The war would have been going on still but for
a traitor who warned the English that nine Scotch
chiefs, having gathered in a cavern to drink fire-water,
had fallen to sleep there like our brother Talamousse."</p>

<p>"The red-skins," said Grand-Loutre, "are never
traitors to their own people. They deceive their enemies,
but never their friends. Will my brother tell me
how it comes that there are traitors among the pale
faces?"</p>

<p>Dumais, a little puzzled to answer this question, went
on as if he had not heard it.</p>

<p>"The nine chiefs were taken to a great city and condemned
to be hung within a month. On this sad news
fires were lighted on all the hills of Scotland to summon
a grand council of all the warriors. The wise men spoke
fine words for three days and three nights, but came to
no conclusion. Then they consulted the spirits, and a
great medicine-man declared that the Manitou was
angry with his children, and that they must bury the
hatchet forever. Twenty warriors with blackened faces<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">189</a></span>
betook themselves to the chief town of the English, and
before the gates they uttered a death-cry for every captive
chief. A great council was held, and Ononthio
granted peace on condition that they should give hostages,
that they should deliver up their strongholds, that
the two nations should henceforth be as one, and that
the English and Scotch warriors should fight shoulder
to shoulder against the enemies of the great Ononthio.
A feast was made which lasted three days and three
nights, and at which so much brandy was drunk that
the women took away all the tomahawks. Had they
not done so the war would have broken out anew. The
English were so rejoiced that they promised to send the
Scotch all the heads, feet, and tails of the sheep which
they should kill in the future."</p>

<p>"The English must be generous, indeed," said the
Indian.</p>

<p>"My brother must see by this," continued Dumais,
"that a Scotch warrior would rather be burned than
hung, and he will sell me his share of the prisoner. Let
my brother fix his price, and Dumais will not count the
cost."</p>

<p>"Grand-Loutre will not sell his share of the prisoner,"
said the Indian. "He has promised Taoutsi and
Katakoui to hand him over to-morrow at Petit-Marigotte,
and he will keep his word. The council will be assembled,
and Grand-Loutre will speak to the young men.
If the young men consent not to burn him, it will then
be time to hand him over to D'Haberville."</p>

<p>"My brother knows Dumais," said the Canadian.
"He knows that he is rich and a man of his word.
Dumais will pay for the prisoner six times as much as
Ononthio pays the Indians for every one of his enemies'
scalps."</p>

<p>"Grand-Loutre knows," said the Indian, "that his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">190</a></span>
brother speaks the truth, but he will not sell his share
of the prisoner."</p>

<p>The eyes of the Canadian shot flame, and instinctively
he grasped his hatchet; but, suddenly changing
his mind, he assumed an indifferent air, and knocked
the ashes out of the bowl of his tomahawk, which served
the Canadians as well as the savages for tobacco-pipe
when on the march. Although the first hostile movement
of the Canadian had not escaped the keen eye of
his companion, the latter went on smoking tranquilly.</p>

<p>The words of Dumais had revived the spark of hope
in Archie's heart. In spite of his bitter remorse, he was
too young to bid farewell without regret to all that made
life dear. Could he, the last of his race, willingly suffer
the shield of the Camerons to go to the tomb with a
stain? Could he endure to die, leaving the D'Habervilles
to think that they had cherished a viper in their
bosom? He thought of the despair of Jules, the curses
of the implacable captain, the silent grief of the good
woman who used to call him her son, the sorrow of the
fair girl whom he had hoped one day to call by a tenderer
name than that of sister. Archie was, indeed,
young to die; and with the renewal of hope in his
heart, he again clung desperately to life.</p>

<p>He had followed with ever-increasing anxiety the
scene that was passing before him. He endeavored to
comprehend it by watching the faces of the speakers.
Dark as was the night, he had lost nothing of the hate
and scorn which were flashed upon him from the cruel
eyes of the savages. Knowing the ferocity of the Indians
when under the influence of alcohol, it was not
without surprise he saw Dumais passing them the bottle;
but when he saw one refuse to drink and the other
stretched in drunken stupor on the sand, he understood
the Canadian's tactics. When he heard the name of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">191</a></span>
Wallace, he remembered that during Dumais's illness he
had often entertained him with fabulous stories about
his favorite hero, but he was puzzled to guess the Canadian's
purpose in talking about the deeds of a Scottish
warrior. If he had understood the latter part of Dumais's
story, he would have recalled the chaffing of
Jules in regard to the pretended delicacies of his countrymen.
When he saw the angry gleam in the Canadian's
eyes, when he saw him grasp his tomahawk, he was
on the point of crying not to strike. His generous soul
foresaw the dangers to which his friend would be exposed
if he should kill an Indian belonging to a tribe
allied with the French.</p>

<p>The Canadian was silent for some time. He refilled
his pipe, began to smoke, and at length said
quietly:</p>

<p>"When Grand-Loutre, with his father, his wife, and his
two sons, fell sick of the small-pox over by South River,
Dumais sought them out. At the risk of bringing the
disease upon himself and family, he carried them to his
own wigwam, where he nursed them for three moons.
It was not the fault of Dumais if the old man and the
two boys died; Dumais had them buried like Christians,
and the Black Robe has prayed to the Great
Spirit for their souls."</p>

<p>"If Dumais," replied the Indian, "if Dumais and
his wife and his children had fallen sick in the forest,
Grand-Loutre would have carried them to his wigwam,
would have fished for them and would have hunted for
them, would have bought them the fire-water which is
the Frenchman's medicine, and would have said, 'Eat
and drink my brothers, and recover your strength.'
Grand-Loutre and his squaw would have watched day
and night by the couch of their French friends; and
never would Grand-Loutre have said, 'Remember that I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">192</a></span>
fed you and took care of you and bought fire-water for
you with my furs.' Let my brother take the prisoner,"
continued the Indian, drawing himself up proudly;
"the red-skin is no longer in debt to the pale face!"
And he calmly resumed his smoking.</p>

<p>"Listen, my brother," said the Canadian, "and pardon
Dumais that he has hidden the truth. He knew
not thy great heart. Now he is going to speak in the
presence of the Great Spirit himself, in whose presence
he dare not lie."</p>

<p>"That is true," said the Indian, "let my brother
speak."</p>

<p>"When Grand-Loutre was sick two years ago," continued
the Canadian, "Dumais told him about his adventure
when the ice went out that spring at the Falls of
St. Thomas, and how he was saved by a young Scotchman
who had arrived that very evening at the house of
the Seigneur de Beaumont."</p>

<p>"My brother has told me," said the Indian, "and
he has shown me the little island suspended over the
abyss, whereon he awaited death. Grand-Loutre knew
the place and the old cedar to which my brother
clung."</p>

<p>"Very well!" replied Dumais, rising and taking off
his cap, "thy brother swears in the presence of the
Great Spirit that the prisoner is none other than the
young Scotchman who saved his life!"</p>

<p>The Indian gave a great cry which went echoing
wildly round the lake. He sprang to his feet, drew his
knife, and rushed upon the captive. Lochiel thought
his hour had come and commended his soul to God.
What was his surprise when the savage cut his bonds,
grasped his hands with every mark of delight, and
pushed him into the arms of his friend. Dumais pressed
Archie to his breast, then sank upon his knees and cried:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">193</a></span></p>

<p>"I have prayed to thee, O God, to extend the right
arm of your protection over this noble and generous
man. My wife and my children have never ceased to
make the same prayer. I thank thee, O God, that thou
hast granted me even more than I had dared to ask.
I thank thee, O God, for I should have committed a
crime to save his life, and should have gone to my grave
a murderer."</p>

<p>"Now," said Lochiel, after endeavoring to thank his
rescuer, "let us get off as quickly as possible, my dear
Dumais; for if my absence from camp is perceived I
am ruined utterly. I will explain as we go."</p>

<p>Just as they were setting foot in the canoe the cry
of the osprey was heard three times from the lake shore
opposite the island. "It is the young men from Marigotte
coming to look for you, my brother," said Grand-Loutre,
turning to Lochiel. "Taoutsi and Katakoui must have
met some of them, and told them they had an English
prisoner on the island; but they will shout a long time
without awakening Talamousse, and as to Grand-Loutre,
he is going to sleep till the Canadian gets back. <i>Bon
voyage</i>, my brothers." As Archie and his companion
directed their course toward the north they heard for a
long time the cries of the osprey, which were uttered at
short intervals by the Indians on the south shore.</p>

<p>"I fear," said Archie, "that the young Abénaquis
warriors, foiled in their amiable intent, will make a bad
quarter of an hour for our friends on the island."</p>

<p>"It is true," replied his companion, "that we are
depriving them of a very great pleasure. They find the
time long at Marigotte, and to-morrow might have been
passed very pleasantly in roasting a prisoner."</p>

<p>Lochiel shuddered in spite of himself.</p>

<p>"As for the two <i>canaouas</i> (red rascals) we have left,
do not trouble yourself for them, they will know how to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">194</a></span>
get out of the scrape. The Indian is the most independent
being imaginable, and renders account to nobody
for his actions unless it suits him. Moreover, the worst
that could happen to them in the present instance would
be, using their own expression, to cover the half of the
prisoner with beaver skins or their equivalent&mdash;in other
words, to pay their share in him to Taoutsi and Katakoui.
It is more probable, however, that Grand-Loutre, who is
a kind of a wag among them, would choose rather to
raise a laugh at the expense of his two disappointed
comrades, for he is never without resource. He will say,
perhaps, that Talamousse and he had a perfect right to
dispose of their half of the prisoner; that the half which
they had set free had run away with the other half;
that they had better hurry after him, for the prisoner was
loaded with their share of himself and therefore could
not travel very fast; with other waggery that would be
hugely relished by the Indians. It is more probable,
however, that he will speak to them of my adventure at
the falls of St. Thomas, which the Abénaquis know
about, and will tell them that it was to your devotion I
owed my life. Then, as the Indians never forget a good
turn, they will cry, 'Our brothers have done well to set
free the savior of our friend the pale face!'"</p>

<p>Lochiel wished to enter into full details in order to
excuse himself in the eyes of Dumais for his cruel conduct
on the day preceding; but the latter stopped him.</p>

<p>"A man like you, sir," said the Canadian, "need
make me no explanation. I could hardly suspect a
heart so noble and so self-forgetful of failing at all in
the sentiments of humanity and gratitude. I am a
soldier, and I know all the duties imposed upon one by
military discipline. I have assisted at hideous performances
on the part of our barbarous allies, which in my
position as sergeant I might have been able to prevent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">195</a></span>
had not my hands been tied by the orders of my
superiors. It is a hard calling for sympathetic hearts,
this profession of ours.</p>

<p>"I have been witness of a spectacle," continued Dumais,
"which makes me shudder now when I think of it.
I have seen these barbarians burn an English woman.
She was a young woman of great beauty. I still see her
tied to the stake, where they tortured her for eight mortal
hours. I still see her in the midst of her butchers,
clothed, like our first mother, in nothing but her long,
fair hair. I shall hear forever her heart-rending cry of
'My God! my God!' We did all we could to buy her
back, but in vain; for her father, her husband, and her
brothers, in defending her with the courage of despair,
had killed many of the savages, and among them two of
their chiefs. We were but fifteen Canadians, against at
least two hundred Indians. I was young then, and I
wept like a child. Ducros, who was nicknamed the
Terror, foamed with rage and cried to Franc&oelig;ur: 'What!
sergeant, shall we, who are men and Frenchmen, let
them burn a poor woman before our eyes? Give the
order, sergeant, and I will split the skulls of ten of these
red hounds before they have time to defend themselves.'
And he would have done it, for he was a mighty man&mdash;was
the Terror&mdash;and quick as a fish. Black Bear, one
of their greatest warriors, approached us with a sneer.
Ducros sprang toward him with his tomahawk uplifted,
crying: 'Take your hatchet, coward, and you shall see
that you have no woman to deal with!' The Indian
shrugged his shoulders with an air of pity, and said
slowly; 'The pale face is childish; he would kill his
friend to defend the squaw of a dog of an Englishman,
his enemy.' The sergeant put an end to the argument
by ordering Ducros back into the ranks. He was a
brave and generous heart, this sergeant, as his name<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">196</a></span>
attested. With tears in his eyes, he said to us: 'It would
be useless for me to disobey my orders; we would all be
massacred without doing the poor woman any good.
What would be the consequence? The great tribe of
the Abénaquis would forsake its alliance with the
French, would join our enemies, and our own women
and children would share the fate of this unhappy English
woman. Their blood would be upon my head.'
Well, Mr. Archie, for six months after this hideous
scene I used to start from my sleep bathed in sweat,
with those heart-rending cries of 'My God! My God!'
shrieking in my ears. They wondered at my coolness
when the ice was bearing me down to the falls of St.
Thomas. Here is the explanation of it. Through the
tumult and uproar I was hearing the screams of the unhappy
English woman, and I believed that Heaven was
punishing me, as I deserved, for not having succored
her. For, you see, Mr. Archie, that man often makes
laws which God is very far from sanctioning."</p>

<p>"True, indeed," said Archie, sighing.</p>

<p>During the rest of their journey the two friends
talked about the D'Habervilles. Archie learned that the
ladies and Uncle Raoul, on the appearance of the English
fleet in the St. Lawrence, had taken refuge within
the walls of Quebec. Captain D'Haberville and Jules
were in camp at Beaupré, with their respective regiments.</p>

<p>Fearing lest Archie should fall in with some of the
Abénaquis spies who were hanging on the skirts of the
English, he escorted Archie all the way to his encampment.
Archie's parting words were as follows:</p>

<p>"You have paid me life for life, my friend; but, for
my part, I shall never forget what I owe you. How
strangely our lives have come together, Dumais! Two
years ago I came all the way from Quebec to South<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">197</a></span>
River just in time to snatch you from the abyss. Yesterday,
having but just landed from a voyage across the
ocean, I am made prisoner; and you find yourself waiting
on a little island in Trois-Saumons Lake to save my
honor and my life. The hand of God is in it. Farewell,
dear friend. However adventurous the soldier's
career, I cling to the hope that Fate will bring us again
together, and that I may give your children further
cause to bless my memory."</p>

<p>When the sun arose, the Highlanders remarked the
strange pallor of their young chief. They concluded
that, dreading a surprise, he had passed the night in
wandering about the camp. After a light meal, Archie
gave the order to burn the house beside the mill. He
had scarcely resumed the march when a messenger came
from Montgomery, ordering him to cease from the work
of destruction.</p>

<p>"It is time!" cried Archie, gnawing his sword-hilt.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">198</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM.</span></h2>
</div>
<p class="center">
Il est des occasions dans la guerre où le plus brave doit fuir.</p>

<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Cervantes.</span>
</p>

<p><i>Vae victis!</i> says the wisdom of the nations. Woe to
the conquered!&mdash;not only because of the ruin which
follows defeat, but because the vanquished are always
in the wrong. They suffer materially, they suffer in
their wounded self-love, they suffer in their reputation
as soldiers. Let them have fought one against twenty,
let them have performed prodigies of heroism, they are
nevertheless and always the vanquished. Even their
fellow-countrymen forgive them hardly. History records
but their defeat. Here and there they get a word
of approval from some writer of their race; but the
praise is almost always mixed with reproach. Pen and
compass in hand, we fight the battle over again. We
teach the generals, whose bodies rest on the well-fought
field, how they might have managed affairs much better.
Seated in a well-stuffed arm-chair, we proudly demonstrate
the skillful man&oelig;uvres by which they might have
snatched the victory; and bitterly we reproach them
with their defeat. They have deserved a more generous
treatment. A great general, who has equaled in
our own day the exploits of Alexander and of Cæsar,
has said: "Who is he that has never made a mistake in
battle?" <i>Vae victis!</i></p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">199</a></span></p>

<p>It was the 13th day of September, 1759, a day accursed
in the annals of France. The English army,
under General Wolfe, after having eluded the vigilance
of the French sentinels and surprised the pickets under
cover of the darkness, were discovered at daybreak on
the Plains of Abraham, where they were beginning to
entrench themselves. Montcalm was either carried
away by his chivalrous courage, or he concluded that
the work of entrenchment had to be at once interrupted;
for he attacked the English with only a portion of his
troops, and was defeated, as he might have foreseen, by
the overwhelming numbers of the enemy. On this
memorable battle field both generals laid down their
lives&mdash;Wolfe bestowing upon his country a colony half
as large as Europe, Montcalm losing to France a vast
territory which the King and his improvident ministers
knew not how to appreciate.</p>

<p>Woe to the vanquished! Had Montcalm been victorious
he would have been lauded to the skies, instead
of being heaped with reproaches for not awaiting the
re-enforcements which would have come from De Vaudreuil
and De Bougainville. We would have praised
his tactics in hurling himself upon the enemy before the
latter had had time to establish himself. We would
have said that a hundred men behind cover were equal
to a thousand in the open. We would never have imputed
to General Montcalm any jealous and unworthy
motives. His shining laurels, gained on so many glorious
fields, would have shielded him from any such suspicions.</p>

<p><i>Vae victis!</i> After the fatal battle of the 13th the
city of Quebec was little more than a heap of ruins.
Not even the fortifications furnished shelter, for a portion
of the ramparts had been shattered to fragments.
The magazines were empty of ammunition, and the gunners,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">200</a></span>
rather to conceal their distress than with any hope
of injuring the enemy, answered the English batteries
only with an occasional cannon-shot. There were no
provisions left. Yet they bring the charge of cowardice
against the brave garrison which endured so much and
defended itself so valiantly. If the governor, a new
Nostradamus, had known that the Chevalier de Lévis
was bringing succor to the city, and, instead of capitulating,
had awaited the arrival of the French troops, it
is certain that the garrison would have been lavishly
applauded for its courage. To be sure the garrison
showed itself most pusillanimous in giving up a city
which it was no longer able to defend! To be sure it
should rather have put its trust in the humanity of an
enemy who had already carried fire and sword through
all the peaceful villages, and should have refused to consider
the lives of the citizens, the honor of their wives
and daughters, exposed to all the horrors of a capture
by assault! Assuredly this unhappy garrison was very
pusillanimous! Woe to the vanquished!</p>

<p>After the capitulation the English left nothing undone
to secure themselves in the possession of a place
so important. The walls were rebuilt, new fortifications
added, and the batteries immensely strengthened. It
was conceivable that the besiegers might become the
besieged. This foresight was justified, for in the following
spring General Lévis took the offensive with an
army of eight thousand men, made up of regulars and
militia in about equal numbers.</p>

<p>At eight o'clock in the morning, April 28, 1760, the
English army was drawn up in order of battle on the
same field where it had moved to victory seven months
before. General Murray, with this army of six thousand
men and twenty guns, held a very strong position, while
the French army, a little more numerous, but supported<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">201</a></span>
by only two guns, occupied the heights of St. Foy.
The French were wearied with their painful march over
the marshes of La Suède, but they burned to wipe out
the memory of their defeat. The hate of centuries
stirred the bosoms of both armies. The courage of
both was beyond question, and fifteen thousand of the
best troops in the world only awaited the word of their
commanders to spring at each other's throats.</p>

<p>Jules D'Haberville, who had distinguished himself in
the first battle on the Plains of Abraham, was with a detachment
commanded by Captain d'Aiguebelle. By
order of General de Lévis, this detachment had at first
abandoned Dumont's mill under the attack of a much
superior force. Jules was severely wounded by the explosion
of a shell, which had shattered his left arm, but
he refused to go to the rear. Presently the general concluded
that the mill was a position of supreme importance,
and, when he gave the order to recapture it, Jules
led his company to the charge, carrying his arm in a
sling.</p>

<p>Almost all Murray's artillery was directed to the
maintenance of this position. The French grenadiers
charged on the run. The bullets and grape decimated
their ranks, but they closed up as accurately as if they
were on parade. The mill was taken and retaken several
times during this memorable struggle. Jules
D'Haberville, "the little grenadier," as the soldiers
called him, had hurled himself, sword in hand, into the
very midst of the enemy, who yielded ground for a moment;
but scarcely had the French established themselves,
when the English returned to the attack in overwhelming
numbers, and took the position after a most
bloody struggle.</p>

<p>The French grenadiers, thrown for a moment into
disorder, reformed at a little distance under a scathing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">202</a></span>
fire; then, charging for the third time, they carried the
position at the point of the bayonet, and held it.</p>

<p>One would have thought, during this last charge,
that the love of life was extinct in the soul of Jules,
who, his heart torn by what he thought the treason
of his friend, and by the total ruin of his family, appeared
to seek death as a blessing. As soon as the
order for that third charge was given he sprang forward
like a tiger with the cry of, "<i>À moi grenadiers!</i>" and
hurled himself single handed upon the English. When
the French found themselves masters of the position
they drew Jules from under a heap of dead and wounded.
Seeing that he was yet alive, two grenadiers carried him
to a little brook near the mill, where he soon returned
to consciousness. It was rather loss of blood than the
severity of his hurt that had caused the swoon. A
blow from a saber had split his helmet and gashed his
head without fracturing the skull. Jules wished to return
to the fight, but one of the grenadiers said to him:</p>

<p>"Not for a little while, my officer. You have had
enough for the present, and the sun beats like the devil
out there, which is very dangerous for a wound on the
head. We are going to leave you in the shade of these
trees." D'Haberville, too weak to oppose them further,
soon found himself lying among a number of the
wounded, who had had strength enough to drag themselves
into the grove. Every one knows its result, this
second battle of the Plains of Abraham. The victory
was dear bought by the French and the Canadians, who
suffered no less severely than their enemies. It was a
useless bloodshed. New France, abandoned by the
mother country, was ceded to England by the careless
Louis three years after the battle.</p>

<p>Lochiel had cleared himself nobly of the suspicions
which his foe, Montgomery, had sought to fix upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">203</a></span>
him. His wide knowledge, his zeal in the study of his
profession, his skill in all military exercises, his sobriety,
his vigilance when in guard of a post, all these had
put him high in esteem. His dashing courage tempered
with prudence in the attack on the French lines
at Montmorency and on the field of the first Battle of
the Plains had been noticed by General Murray, who
commended him publicly.</p>

<p>On the defeat of the English army at this second
battle, Lochiel, after tremendous fighting at the head of
his Highlanders, was the last to yield a position which
he had defended inch by inch. Instead of following
the throng of fugitives toward Quebec, he noticed that
Dumont's Mill was now evacuated by the French, who
were pursuing their enemies with great slaughter. To
conceal his route from the enemy, Archie led his men
between the mill and the adjoining wood. Just then he
heard some one calling his name; and turning, he saw
an officer, his arm in a sling, his uniform in tatters, his
head wrapped in a bloody cloth, staggering to meet him
sword in hand.</p>

<p>"What are you doing, brave Cameron of Lochiel?"
cried the unknown. "The mill has been evacuated by
our brave soldiers, and is no longer defended by women
and children and feeble old men. Return, valorous
Cameron, and crown your exploits by burning it down."</p>

<p>It was impossible to mistake the mocking voice of
Jules D'Haberville, although his face was unrecognizable
for blood and powder.</p>

<p>On hearing these insulting words, Archie felt nothing
but tenderest loving pity for the friend of his youth. His
heart beat as if to break; a sob labored from his bosom,
and again he seemed to hear the witch of the manor crying
ominously: "Keep your pity for yourself, Archibald
de Lochiel. You will have need of it all on that day<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">204</a></span>
when you shall carry in your arms the bleeding body of
him you now call your brother!"</p>

<p>Forgetting the critical position in which he was keeping
his men, Archie halted his company and went forward
to meet Jules. For one moment all the young
Frenchman's love for his adopted brother seemed to
revive, but, restraining himself sternly, he cried in a
bitter voice:</p>

<p>"Defend yourself, M. de Lochiel; you, who love
easy triumphs, defend yourself, traitor!"</p>

<p>At this new insult, Archie folded his arms and answered,
in a tone of tender reproach:</p>

<p>"Thou, too, my brother Jules, even thou, too, hast
thou condemned me unheard?"</p>

<p>At these words a nervous shock seemed to paralyze
the little remaining strength of poor Jules. The sword
dropped from his hand and he fell forward on his face.
Archie sent one of his men to the brook for water, and,
without thinking of the danger to which he exposed
himself, took his friend in his arms and carried him to
the edge of the woods, where some of the wounded Canadians,
touched at the sight of an Englishman bestowing
so much care on their young officer, made no move
to injure him, although they had reloaded their guns at
the approach of his men. Archie examined his friend's
wounds, and saw that he had fainted from loss of blood.
A little cold water in his face soon brought him back
to consciousness. He opened his eyes and looked at
Archie, but made no attempt to speak. The latter
clasped his hand, which seemed to return a gentle
pressure.</p>

<p>"Farewell, Jules," said Archie. "Farewell, my
brother. Harsh duty forces me to leave you; but we
shall meet again, in better days." And he turned back
sorrowfully to his troop.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">205</a></span></p>

<p>"Now, my boys," said Lochiel, after throwing a rapid
glance over the plain and listening to the confused noises
of the distant flight, "now, my boys, no false delicacy,
for the battle is hopelessly lost. We must now display
the agility of our Highland legs, if we want to take a
hand in future battles. Forward now, and do not lose
sight of me."</p>

<p>Taking advantage of every inequality of the ground,
lending heedful ear to the shouts of the French, who
were endeavoring to crowd the English into the St.
Charles, Lochiel led his men into Quebec without further
loss. This valiant company had already suffered
enough. Half its men had been left on the field of battle,
and of its officers Lochiel was the sole survivor.</p>

<p>All honor to vanquished heroism! Honor to the
English dead, whose bodies were buried in confusion
with those of their enemies on the twenty-eighth day of
April, 1760! Honor to the soldiers of France, over
whose bodies grows green, with every succeeding spring,
the turf of the Plains of Abraham! When the last
trump shall sound, and these foes shall rise from their
last sleep side by side, will they have forgotten their
ancient hate, or will they spring once more at each other's
throats?</p>

<p>Honor to the vanquished brave! Among the soldiers
whose names are bright on the pages of history
there is but one who, on the morrow of a glorious triumph,
uncovered his head before his captives and cried,
"All honor to the vanquished brave!" He knew that
his words would last forever, graven on the heart of
France. Great soldiers there are many; but niggard
Nature takes centuries to frame a hero.</p>

<p>The field of battle after the victory presented a
ghastly sight. Men and horses, the wounded and the
dead, were frozen into the mire of blood and water, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">206</a></span>
could be extricated only with pain and difficulty. The
wounded of both nations were treated by the Chevalier
de Lévis with the same tender care. Most of them were
carried to the Convent of the Hospital Nuns. The convent
and all its outbuildings were crowded. All the
linen, all the clothing of the inmates was torn up for
bandages, and the good nuns had nothing left for themselves
but the clothes they were wearing upon the day
of battle.</p>

<p>Taking refuge after his defeat behind the ramparts
of Quebec, General Murray made a vigorous resistance.
As they had but twenty guns with which to arm their
siege-batteries, the French could do little more than
blockade the city and wait for the re-enforcements which
never came. The English general requested permission
to send an officer three times a week to visit his wounded
in the hospital. This request was readily granted by
the humane De Lévis. Lochiel knew that his friend
must be lying in the hospital, but he could get no news
of him. Although consumed with anxiety, he dreaded
to put himself in a false position by inquiries too minute.
It might have been considered natural that he would
wish to visit his wounded countrymen, but with true
Scotch caution he let none of his anxiety appear. It was
not till the tenth day after the battle, when his regular
turn came, that he found himself approaching the hospital
under the escort of a French officer.</p>

<p>"I wonder," said Lochiel, "if you would consider it
an indiscretion on my part were I to ask for a private
interview with the lady superior?"</p>

<p>"I see no indiscretion in it," answered the Frenchman,"
but I fear I would be exceeding my orders were I
to permit it. I am ordered to lead you to your countrymen
and nothing more."</p>

<p>"I am sorry," said the Scotchman indifferently. "It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">207</a></span>
is a little disappointing to me; but let us speak no more
of it."</p>

<p>The French officer was silent some minutes; he
thought to himself that the Scotchman, speaking French
like a Parisian, had probably made the acquaintance of
some Canadian families shut up in Quebec; that he was
perhaps charged with some message from the relations
or friends of the superior, and that it would be cruel to
refuse his request. Presently he said:</p>

<p>"As I am persuaded that neither you nor the lady
superior can be forming any designs against our batteries,
I think that perhaps, after all, I might grant your
request without exceeding my duty."</p>

<p>Lochiel, who had been staking all his hopes of a reconciliation
with the D'Habervilles upon this interview,
could scarcely conceal his joy; but he answered quietly:</p>

<p>"Thank you, monsieur, for your courtesy to myself
and the good lady. Your batteries, protected by French
valor, might feel reasonably secure even if we were conspiring
against them."</p>

<p>The corridors of the hospital which he had to traverse
before reaching the parlor of the superior were literally
thronged with the wounded; but Archie, seeing
none of his own men, hastened on. After ringing the
bell, he walked restlessly up and down the room. It
was the same room in which he and Jules had had so
many a dainty lunch in their happy school days; for the
good superior was Jules's aunt.</p>

<p>The superior received him with cold politeness, and
said:</p>

<p>"I am very sorry to have kept you waiting, sir; please
take a seat."</p>

<p>"I fear," said Archie, "that madam does not recognize
me."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">208</a></span></p>

<p>"A thousand pardons," replied the superior. "You
are Mr. Archibald Cameron of Lochiel."</p>

<p>"Once you called me Archie," said the young man.</p>

<p>"The times are changed, sir," replied the nun, "and
many things have happened since those days."</p>

<p>Sighing deeply, Lochiel echoed her words:</p>

<p>"The times are indeed changed, and many things
have happened since those days. But at least, madam,
tell me how is my brother, Jules D'Haberville?"</p>

<p>"He whom you once called your brother, sir, is now,
I hope, out of danger."</p>

<p>"Thank God!" answered Lochiel, "now all hope is
not utterly dead in my heart! If I were speaking to an
ordinary person there would be nothing more for me to
do but thank you for your condescension and retire;
but I have the honor to address the sister of a brave soldier,
the inheritor of a name made illustrious by many
heroic deeds; and if madam will permit, if she will forget
for a moment the ties which bind me to her family,
if she will judge impartially between me and that family,
then I might dare attempt, with some hope of success,
to justify myself before her."</p>

<p>"Speak, M. de Lochiel," replied the superior, "and
I will listen, not as a D'Haberville but as a stranger. It
is my duty as a Christian to hear impartially anything
that might palliate your barbarous and heartless conduct
toward a family that loved you so well."</p>

<p>The sudden flush which covered the young man's
face was followed by a pallor so ghastly that the superior
thought he was about to faint. He grasped the
grating between them with both hands, and leaned his
head against it for some moments; then, mastering his
emotion, he told his story as the reader already knows it.</p>

<p>Archie went into the most minute details, down to
his misgivings when his regiment was ordered to leave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">209</a></span>
for Canada, down to the hereditary hatred of the Montgomerys
for the Camerons; and he accused himself of
cowardice in not having sacrificed even his honor to the
gratitude he owed the D'Habervilles. From the utterance
of Montgomery's barbarous order he omitted not
the smallest incident. He described the anguish of his
despair, his curses, and his vows of vengeance against
Montgomery. In painting the emotions which had tortured
his soul, Lochiel had small need to add anything
in the way of justification. What argument could be
more eloquent than the plain story of his despair!
Lochiel's judge was one well fitted to understand him,
for she it was who in her youth had one day said to her
brother Captain D'Haberville: "My brother, you have
not the means to worthily sustain the dignity of our
house, except with the help of my share of the patrimony.
To-morrow I enter a convent. Here is the deed
wherein I renounce all claim in your favor."</p>

<p>The good woman had heard Archie's story with ever-increasing
emotion. She stretched out her clasped
hands to him as he described his anguished imprecations
against Montgomery. The tears flowed down her cheeks
as he described his remorse and his resignation while,
bound to the tree, he awaited a hideous death.</p>

<p>"My dear Archie," exclaimed the holy woman.</p>

<p>"Oh! thank you, thank you a thousand times for
those words," cried Lochiel, clasping his hands.</p>

<p>"My dear Archie," exclaimed the superior, "I absolve
you with all my heart. You have but done your
painful duty in obeying your orders. By any other
course you would have destroyed yourself irretrievably
without preventing the ruin of our family. Yes, I forgive
you freely, but I hope that you will now pardon
your enemy."</p>

<p>"He who was my enemy, madam, has gone to solicit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">210</a></span>
pardon from him who will judge us all. He was one of
the first to fly from the field of battle which proved so
disastrous to our arms. A bullet stretched him upon the
ice, wounded to the death. He had not even a stone
on which to rest his head. A tomahawk ended his sufferings,
and his scalp hangs now at the belt of an Abénaquis
warrior. May God pardon him, as I do, with all
my heart!"</p>

<p>A divine light beamed softly in the eyes of the nun.
Born as revengeful as her brother the seigneur, her religion
of love and charity had made her as all charitable
as itself. After a moment of rapt meditation, she said:</p>

<p>"With Jules, I doubt not, you will find reconciliation
easy. He has been at death's door. During his delirium
your name was forever on his lips, sometimes with
the fiercest reproaches, but more often with words of love
and tenderest endearment. One must know my nephew
well, must know the sublime self-abnegation of which
his soul is capable, in order to comprehend his love for
you. Many a time has he said to me: 'If it were necessary
for me to-morrow to sacrifice my life for Archie, I
would die with a smile on my lips, for I should be giving
him the only worthy proof of my love.' Such love, in a
heart so noble as his, is not soon or easily extinguished.
He will rejoice to hear your justification from my lips,
and you may be sure that I will spare no effort to reunite
you. Since recovering from his delirium he has
never mentioned your name; and as he is yet too weak
to discuss a subject that would excite so much emotion,
I must wait till he gets stronger. I shall hope to have
good news for you at our next interview. Meanwhile,
farewell till I see you again!"</p>

<p>"Pray for me, madam, for I have great need of it,"
exclaimed Archie.</p>

<p>"That is what I do daily," answered the nun. "They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">211</a></span>
say, perhaps wrongly, that people of the world, and
young officers particularly, have more need of prayer
than we; but as for you, Archie, you must have greatly
changed if you are not one of those who have least need
of it," she added, smiling affectionately. "Farewell
once more, and God bless you, my son!"</p>

<p>The superior succeeded in satisfying Jules with Archie's
explanation. About a fortnight after Archie's
first visit, Jules was awaiting him, filled with a nervous
anxiety to prove to him that all the old love was yet
warm in his heart. It was understood that there should
be no allusion to certain events, too painful for either to
dwell upon.</p>

<p>Archie was ushered into a little chamber which Jules,
as nephew of the lady superior, was occupying in preference
to certain officers of higher rank. Jules stretched
out his arms and made a vain effort to rise from his armchair.
Archie threw himself upon his neck, and for a
time neither spoke.</p>

<p>D'Haberville, after controlling his emotion with an
effort, was the first to break silence:</p>

<p>"The moments are precious, my dear Archie, and
we must endeavor, if possible, to lift the veil which
hangs over our future. We are no longer children;
we are soldiers fighting under glorious banners, brothers
in love but enemies upon the field of battle. I have
grown ten years older during my sickness. I am no
longer the broken-hearted young fool who rushed upon
the enemy's battalions seeking death. No, my dear
brother, let us live rather to see better days. Those were
your last words when you handed over my bleeding
body to the care of my grenadiers.</p>

<p>"You know as well as I the precarious condition
of this colony; all depends upon a mere throw of the
dice. If France leaves us to our own resources, as it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">212</a></span>
seems but too probable she will do, and if your Government,
attaching so grand an importance to the conquest
of Canada, send you re-enforcments in the spring, we
must raise the siege of Quebec and leave the country to
you. In the opposite contingency we recapture Quebec
and keep the colony. Now, my dear Archie, I want to
know what you will do in the one case or the other."</p>

<p>"In either case," said Lochiel, "as long as the war
lasts I can not honorably resign my commission. But
when peace comes, I propose to sell the poor remnant
of my Highland estate and come and establish myself
on this side of the water. My deepest affections are
here. I love Canada, I love the simple and upright
manners of your good <i>habitants</i>; and after a quiet but
busy life, I would rest my head beneath the same sod
with you, my brother."</p>

<p>"My position is very different from yours," answered
Jules. "You are the master of your actions; I am the
slave of circumstance. If we lose Canada, it is probable
that most of the Canadian nobility will move to France,
where they will find protection and friends. If my
family is of this number I can not leave the army. In
the contrary case I shall return after some years of service,
to live and die with my own people; and, like you,
to sleep at last in the land I love so well. Everything
leads me to hope, my brother, that after a storm-tossed
youth we shall come to see happier days."</p>

<p>The two friends parted after a long and loving talk,
the last they were to have while the colony remained
New France. When the reader meets them again after
some years, the country will have changed both name
and masters.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">213</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">THE SHIPWRECK OF THE AUGUSTE.</span></h2>
</div>

<p>The predictions of the witch of the manor were accomplished.
After the surrender of Quebec, the rich
D'Habervilles had been but too glad to accept the hospitality
of M. d'Egmont's cabin, whose remoteness had
saved it from the flames. "The good gentleman" and
Uncle Raoul, with the faithful André, had gone at once
to work and raised the narrow attic, so as to leave the
ground floor to the use of the ladies. To cheer the
latter, the men affected a gayety which they were far
from feeling; and their songs were often heard, mingled
with the rapid strokes of the axe, the grating of the saw,
the sharp whistling of the plane. By dint of toil and
perseverance, they succeeded in sheltering themselves
tolerably from the severity of the season; and had it not
been for the anxiety which they suffered in regard to
Captain D'Haberville and Jules, the winter would have
passed pleasantly enough in their solitude.</p>

<p>Their most difficult problem was that of provisions,
for a veritable famine held sway in all the country-side.
The little grain which the <i>habitants</i> had harvested was
for the most part eaten boiled, in default of mill to grind
it. The sole remaining resource lay in fishing and hunting,
but M. d'Egmont and his servant were rather old to
indulge in such exercises during the severe weather.
Uncle Raoul, lame as he was, took charge of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">214</a></span>
commissariat. He set snares to catch rabbits and partridges,
and his fair niece helped him. Blanche made herself a
sort of hunting costume; and simply ravishing she looked
in her half-savage garb, her petticoat of blue cloth falling
half-way below the knee, her scarlet gaiters, her
deer-hide moccasins worked with beads and porcupine
quills in vivid colors. Lovely, indeed, she looked as she
returned to the house on her little snow-shoes, her face
delicately flushed, her hands laden with her spoils.
During the famine the <i>habitants</i> frequented Trois Saumons
Lake in great numbers; they had beaten a hard
road over the snow, which enabled Uncle Raoul to visit
the lake on a sledge drawn by a huge dog. He always
returned with an ample provision of trout and partridge.
On such fare they got through the long winter. In the
spring a veritable manna of wild pigeons came to the
salvation of the colony; they were so innumerable that
they could be knocked down with a stick.</p>

<p>When Captain D'Haberville returned to his <i>seigneurie</i>
he was utterly ruined, having saved nothing but the
family plate. He did not care to come down on his
impoverished tenants for their arrearages of rent, but
rather hastened to their aid by rebuilding his mill on the
Trois Saumons River. In this mill he lived several years
with his family, till able to build a new manor house.</p>

<p>A poor lodging, truly&mdash;three narrow chambers in a
mill&mdash;for a family once so wealthy as the D'Habervilles!
But they bore their misfortunes cheerfully. Only Captain
D'Haberville, toiling with tireless energy, seemed
unable to reconcile himself to his losses. His grief
gnawed at his heart, and for six years there was never
a smile upon his lips. It was not till the manor was rebuilt
and the household restored to a certain degree of
comfort and prosperity that he regained his native
cheerfulness.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">215</a></span></p>

<p>It was the 22d of February, 1762, and about nine
o'clock in the evening, when an ill-clad stranger entered
the mill and begged shelter for the night. As was his
custom when not occupied in work, Captain D'Haberville
was seated in a corner of the room, his head hanging
dejectedly on his breast. The voice of the stranger
made him tremble without knowing why. It was some
moments before he could answer, but at last he said:</p>

<p>"You are welcome, my friend; you shall have supper
and breakfast here, and my miller will give you a bed
for the night."</p>

<p>"Thank you," said the stranger, "but I am very
tired; give me a glass of brandy."</p>

<p>M. D'Haberville was not disposed to bestow upon a
vagabond stranger even one drink of the meager supply
of brandy, which he was keeping in case of absolute necessity.
He answered that he had none.</p>

<p>"If thou didst know me, D'Haberville," replied the
stranger, "thou wouldst certainly not refuse me a drink
of brandy, though it were the last drop in thy house."</p>

<p>The first feeling of the captain was one of wrath on
hearing himself addressed so familiarly by one who appeared
to be a tramp; but there was something in the
hoarse voice of the unknown which made him tremble
anew, and he checked himself. At this moment Blanche
appeared with a light, and every one was stupefied at
the appearance of this man, a veritable living specter,
who stood with folded arms and gazed upon them sadly.
So deathlike was his pallor that one would have thought
a vampire had sucked all the blood from his veins.
His bones threatened to pierce his skin, which was yellow
like that of a mummy; and his dim and sunken
eyes were vacant&mdash;without speculation, like those of the
ghost of Banquo. Everybody was astonished that such
a corpse could walk.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">216</a></span></p>

<p>After one moment of hesitation, Captain D'Haberville
threw himself into the stranger's arms, crying:</p>

<p>"You here, my dear Saint-Luc! The sight of my bitterest
enemy could not cause me such dismay. Speak;
and tell us that all our relations and friends who took
passage in the Auguste are buried in the sea, and that
you, the one survivor, are come to bring us the sad tidings!"</p>

<p>The silence of M. Saint-Luc de Lacorne, the grief
stamped upon his countenance, confirmed Captain
D'Haberville's worst fears.</p>

<p>"Accursed be the tyrant," cried the captain, "who
in the bitterness of his hate against the French sent so
many good men to their death in an old ship utterly unseaworthy!"</p>

<p>"Instead of cursing your enemies," said M. de Saint-Luc
in a hoarse voice, "thank God that you and your
family got leave to remain in the colony two years longer.
And now, a glass of brandy and a little soup. I have
been so nearly starved that my stomach refuses solid
food. Let me also take a little rest before telling you a
story which will call forth many tears."</p>

<p>In the neighborhood of half an hour, for this man of
iron needed but little rest to recover his strength, M. de
Saint-Luc began as follows:</p>

<p>"In spite of the English governor's impatience to
banish from New France those who had so valiantly defended
her, the authorities had placed at our disposal
only two ships, which were found utterly insufficient for
the great number of French and Canadians who were
waiting to sail. I pointed this out to General Murray,
and proposed to buy one at my own expense. This he
would not hear, but two days later he placed at our disposal
the ship Auguste, hastily commissioned for the
purpose. By a payment of five hundred Spanish piasters,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">217</a></span>
I obtained from the English captain the exclusive
use of his cabin for myself and family.</p>

<p>"I then pointed out to General Murray the danger
to which we should be exposed at this stormy season
with a captain not familiar with the St. Lawrence. I
offered to hire and pay for a pilot myself. His answer
was, that we would have the same chance as the rest;
but he ended by sending a little vessel to pilot us clear
of the river.</p>

<p>"We were all in deep dejection, a prey to the gloomiest
forebodings, when we raised anchor on the 15th of
October last. Many of us, forced to sell our properties
at a ruinous sacrifice, had but a future of poverty
to look forward to in the mother country. Speeding at
first before a favorable wind, with swelling hearts we
saw the cherished and familiar scenes fade out behind
us and fall below the horizon.</p>

<p>"I will not detail the many perils we underwent before
the great calamity out of which but myself and six
others escaped alive. On the 16th we came within an
ace of shipwreck on the Isle aux Coudres, after the loss
of our main anchor.</p>

<p>"On the 4th of November we were struck by a terrific
gale, which lasted two days, and which we weathered
with difficulty. On the 7th a fire broke out three times
in the cook's galley, and was extinguished only after
a desperate struggle. I shall not endeavor to paint the
scenes on shipboard while it seemed likely we should
be burned in the open sea.</p>

<p>"On the 11th we escaped as by a miracle from being
dashed to pieces on a rock off Isle Royale.</p>

<p>"From the 13th to the 15th we were driven blindly
before a hurricane, not knowing where we were. As
many of us as could do so were obliged to fill the
places of the crew, who were so exhausted with their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">218</a></span>
incessant labors that they had taken refuge in their
hammocks, from which neither bribes, threats, nor blows
could drive them. Our foremast was gone, our tattered
sails could no longer be either hoisted or furled, and, as
a last resort, the mate proposed that we should run the
ship ashore. It was a desperate expedient. The fatal
moment arrived. The captain and mate looked at me
despairingly, clasping their hands. I understood but
too well the silent speech of these men inured to peril.
We made for land to starboard, where we saw the mouth
of a little river which might perhaps prove navigable. I
explained our situation to all the passengers, concealing
nothing. Then what entreaties and what vows to the
Almighty! But, alas! in vain the vows, and of no avail
the prayers!</p>

<p>"Who can paint the madness of the waves? Our
masts seemed to touch the sky and then vanish in the
deep. A frightful shock announced that the ship had
grounded. We cut away the masts and cordage to
lighten her, but the waves rolled her on her side. We
were stranded about five hundred feet from shore, in a
little sandy bay at the mouth of the river in which we
had hoped to find refuge. As the ship was now leaking
at every joint, the passengers rushed upon deck; and
some even, thinking themselves within reach of safety,
threw themselves into the sea and perished miserably.</p>

<p>"At this moment Madame de Tillac appeared on
deck, holding her little one in her arms, her long hair
and her garments streaming about her in confusion. She
was the picture of hopeless anguish. She fell on her
knees. Then, perceiving me, she cried in a piercing
voice: 'My dear friend, must we die like this?'</p>

<p>"I was running to her aid, when a giant wave thundered
down upon the deck and swept her into the sea."</p>

<p>"My poor friend," sobbed Madame D'Haberville;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">219</a></span>
"companion of my childhood, my foster-sister, nourished
at the same breast with me? They tried to persuade
me that it was merely my overwrought imagination
that made me see you in my sleep, that 17th of
November! I saw you weeping on the deck of the
Auguste, your baby in your arms; and I saw you swept
into the waves. I was not deceived, my sister! You
came to bid me farewell before vanishing to heaven
with the angel that nestled in your bosom!"</p>

<p>After a pause, M. de Lacorne went on:</p>

<p>"Crew and passengers were lashed to the shrouds,
to escape the waves which dashed ceaselessly over the
doomed ship, every moment carrying away new victims.
The ship carried but two small boats, one of which was
already crushed into splinters. The remaining one, a
mere cockle-shell, was launched, and a servant named
Étienne threw himself into it, followed by the captain
and two or three others. I did not perceive this till
one of my children, whom I held in my arms, while the
other was tied to my belt, cried eagerly: 'Save us now,
father; the boat is going away!' I seized the rope
fiercely. At this moment a terrific wave struck us, and
hurled me headlong into the boat. The same wave
which saved my life swept away my children."</p>

<p>At this point the narrator's voice failed him, and his
listeners sobbed aloud. Regaining his self-control, he
continued:</p>

<p>"Although under the lee of the ship, the boat was
almost swamped by another wave; and the next hurled
us landward. In what seemed but a few seconds, in
that awful and stupefying tumult, we found ourselves
dashed upon the sand. Above the uproar we heard the
heart-rending shrieks of those who remained upon the
ship.</p>

<p>"Of the seven men thus miraculously thrown upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">220</a></span>
the unknown shore, I was the only one capable of
action. I had just seen my brother and my little ones
snatched away, and I strove to keep down my agony
of soul by striving for the safety of my fellow-sufferers.
I succeeded, after a time, in bringing the captain back
to consciousness. The others were numbed with cold,
for an icy rain was falling in torrents. Not wishing to
lose sight of the ship, I handed them my flint and steel
and powder-horn, telling them to light a fire at the edge
of the wood. In this they failed signally; scarcely had
they strength enough to come and tell me of their failure,
so weak were they and numbed with cold. After
many attempts, I succeeded in making a fire just in time
to save their lives. Then I returned to the beach,
hoping to save some poor creatures who might be
washed ashore. I remained there from three in the
afternoon till six o'clock in the evening, when the ship
went to pieces. Never, never shall I forget the sight of
the dead bodies stretched upon the sand, more than a
hundred in number, many of them with legs or arms
broken, their faces battered out of all recognition.</p>

<p>"Half stupefied by the calamity, we passed a sleepless
and silent night, and on the morning of the 16th
we betook ourselves again to the fatal shore. We
passed the day in bestowing upon the dead such sad
last rites as were possible to such poor wretches as we.</p>

<p>"On the morrow we left this desert and inhospitable
coast, and directed our course into the interior. The
winter had set in in all its severity. We marched
through snow up to our knees. Sometimes we came to
deep and rapid rivers, which forced us to make long
<i>détours</i>. My companions were so enfeebled by fatigue
and famine that sometimes I had to retrace my steps
more than once to get their bundles, which they had
been compelled to drop. Their courage was utterly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">221</a></span>
broken; and sometimes I had to stop and make them
rude moccasins to cover their bleeding feet.</p>

<p>"Thus we dragged ourselves on, or rather I dragged
them in tow, for neither courage nor strength once
failed me till at length, on the 4th of December, we
met two Indians. Imagine if you can the delirious joy
of my companions, who for the last few days had been
looking forward to death itself as a welcome release
from their sufferings! These Indians did not recognize
me at first, so much was I changed by what I had gone
through, and by the long beard which had covered my
face. Once I did their tribe a great service; and you
know that these natives never forget a benefit. They
welcomed me with delight. We were saved. Then I
learned that we were on the island of Cape Breton,
about thirty leagues from Louisbourg.</p>

<p>"I made haste to leave my companions at the first
Acadian settlement, where I knew they would be nursed
back to health. I was eager to return to Quebec, that
I might be the first to inform General Murray of our
shipwreck. I need not detail to you the incidents of
the journey. Suffice to say that with the greatest peril
I crossed from Cape Breton to the main-land in a birch
canoe, through the sweeping ice cakes; and that I have
covered now about five hundred leagues on my snow-shoes.
I have had to change my guides very frequently,
for after eight days' marching with me, Indian and
Acadian alike find themselves utterly used up."</p>

<p>After this story, the family passed the greater part of
the night in bewailing the fate of their friends and kinsfolk,
the victims of a barbarous decree.</p>

<p>M. de Saint-Luc allowed himself but a few hours
rest, so eager was he to present himself before Murray
at Quebec as a living protest against the vindictive
cruelty which had sent to their death so many brave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">222</a></span>
soldiers, so many unoffending women and little ones.
It had been thought that Murray's unreasoning bitterness
was due to the fact that he could not forget his
defeat of the previous year.</p>

<p>"Do you know, D'Haberville," said M. de Saint-Luc
at breakfast, "who was the friend so strong
with Murray as to obtain you your two years' respite?
Do you know to whom you owe to-day the life which
you would probably have lost in our shipwreck?"</p>

<p>"No," said Captain D'Haberville. "I have no idea
what friend we can have so powerful. But whoever he
is, never shall I forget the debt of gratitude I owe him."</p>

<p>"Well, my friend, it is the young Scotchman Archibald
de Lochiel to whom you owe this eternal gratitude."</p>

<p>"I have commanded," almost shouted Captain D'Haberville,
"that the name of this viper, whom I warmed in
my bosom, should never be pronounced in my presence."
And the captain's great black eyes shot fire.</p>

<p>"I dare flatter myself," said M. de Saint-Luc, "that
this command hardly extends to me. I am your friend
from childhood, your brother in arms, and I know all
the obligations which bind us mutually. I know that
you will not say to me, as you said to your sister, the
superior, when she sought to plead the cause of this innocent
young man: 'Enough, my sister. You are a
holy woman, bound to forgive your enemies, even those
who have been guilty of the blackest ingratitude against
you. But as for me, you know that I never forgive an
injury. That is my nature. If it be a sin, God has not
given me strength to conquer it. Enough, my sister;
and never again pronounce his name in my presence, or
all intercourse between us shall cease.' No, my dear
friend," continued Saint-Luc, "you will not make me
this answer; and you will hear what I have to say."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">223</a></span></p>

<p>M. D'Haberville knew too well the requirements of
hospitality to impose silence upon his friend under his
own roof. His thick eyebrows gathered in a heavy
frown, he half closed his eyes as if to veil his thoughts,
and resigned himself to listen with the air of a criminal
to whose satisfaction the judge is endeavoring to prove
that he deserves his sentence.</p>

<p>M. de Saint-Luc detailed Archie's conduct from the
beginning, and his struggle with his implacable foe
Montgomery. He spoke energetically of the soldier's
obligation to obey the commands of his superior, however
unjust. He drew a touching picture of the young
man's despair, and added:</p>

<p>"As soon as Lochiel learned that you and yours
were ordered to embark at once for Europe, he requested
an audience with the general, which was granted.</p>

<p>"'<i>Captain</i> de Lochiel,' said Murray, handing him the
brevet of his new rank, 'I was going to look for you.
Having witnessed your exploits on the glorious field of
1759, I hastened to ask for your promotion; and I may
add that your subsequent conduct has proved you
worthy of the favor of His Majesty's Government, and
of my utmost efforts on your behalf.'</p>

<p>"'I am most glad, sir,' answered Lochiel, 'that your
recommendation has obtained me a reward far beyond
anything my poor services could entitle me to expect;
and I beg you will accept my grateful thanks for the
favor, which emboldens me to ask yet one more. General,
it is a great, an inestimable favor which I would
ask of you.'</p>

<p>"'Speak, captain,' said Murray, 'for I would do
much to gratify you.'</p>

<p>"'If it were myself that was concerned,' said Archie,
'I should have nothing further to desire. It is for
others I would speak. The D'Haberville family, ruined,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">224</a></span>
like so many others, by our conquest, has been ordered
by Your Excellency to depart at once for France. They
have found it impossible to sell, even at the greatest sacrifice,
the small remnants of their once considerable fortune.
Grant them, I implore you, two years in which to
set their affairs in order. Your Excellency is aware how
much I owe to this family, which loaded me with kindness
during my ten years' sojourn in the colony. It
was I who, obeying the orders of my superior officer,
completed their ruin by burning their manor and mill
at St. Jean-Port-Joli. For the love of Heaven, general,
grant them two years, and you will lift a terrible burden
from my soul!'</p>

<p>"'Captain de Lochiel,' said Murray severely, 'I am
surprised to hear you interceding for the D'Habervilles,
who have shown themselves our most implacable enemies.'</p>

<p>"'It is but just to them, general,' answered Archie,
'to recognize that they have fought bravely to defend
their country, even as we have done to conquer it. It
is with some confidence I address myself to a brave soldier,
on behalf of truly valiant enemies.'</p>

<p>"Lochiel had touched the wrong cord, for Murray was
brooding over his defeat of the preceding year, and, further,
he was hardly susceptible to anything like chivalry
of sentiment. He answered icily:</p>

<p>"'Impossible, sir! I can not recall my order. The
D'Habervilles must go.'</p>

<p>"'In that case, will Your Excellency be so kind as to
accept my resignation?' said Archie.</p>

<p>"'What, sir!' exclaimed the general, paling with
anger.</p>

<p>"'Will Your Excellency,' repeated Archie coldly, 'be
so good as to accept my resignation, and permit me
to serve as a common soldier? They who will seek to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">225</a></span>
point the finger at me as the monster of ingratitude,
who, after being loaded with benefits by a family to
whom he came a stranger, achieved the final ruin of that
family without working any alleviation of their lot&mdash;they
who would hold me up to scorn for this will find it
harder to discover me when buried in the ranks than
when I am at the head of men who have no such stain
upon them.' Once more he offered his commission to
the general.</p>

<p>"The latter became first red and then pale, turned
upon his heel, bit his lips, passed his hand across his
forehead, muttered something like a 'G&mdash;d d&mdash;n!' between
his teeth, and remained for a moment plunged in
thought. Then he calmed himself suddenly, put out his
hand, and said:</p>

<p>"'I appreciate your sentiments, Captain de Lochiel.
Our sovereign must not be deprived of the services
which you can render him as one of his officers, you
who are ready to sacrifice your future for a debt of
gratitude. Your friends shall remain.'</p>

<p>"'A thousand thanks!' cried Archie. 'You may
count on my devotion henceforth, though I be required
to march alone to the cannon's mouth to prove it. A
mountain of remorse lay on my heart. Now I feel as
light as one of our mountain roebucks!'"</p>

<p>Of all the passions that sway men's wills, jealousy
and revenge are perhaps the hardest to control. Captain
D'Haberville, after having listened with a frown,
said merely:</p>

<p>"I perceive that the services of M. de Lochiel have
met with due appreciation. As for me, I was unaware
that I was so indebted to him." And he turned the
conversation into another channel.</p>

<p>M. de Saint-Luc glanced at the other members
of the family, who had listened with eyes cast down,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">226</a></span>
not daring to discuss the subject. Rising from the table,
he added:</p>

<p>"This respite, D'Haberville, is a most fortunate
thing; for you may rest assured that within two years
you will find yourself free to go or come as you will.
The English governor incurred too heavy a responsibility
when he doomed to death so many persons of
prominence&mdash;persons allied to the most illustrious families,
not only on the Continent, but in England as well.
He will seek to conciliate the Canadians in order to
ward off the consequences of this dreadful catastrophe.
Now, farewell, my friends; and remember they are weak
souls who let themselves be beaten down by misfortune.
One great consolation we have in considering that we
did all that could be expected of the bravest, and that,
if our country could have been preserved, our arms and
our courage would have preserved it."</p>

<p>The night was far advanced when M. de Saint-Luc
reached Quebec and presented himself at the Château
St.-Louis, where he was at first refused admission. But
he was so determined, declaring that his tidings were of
the most immediate importance, that at length an aide
consented to awaken the governor, who had been some
hours in bed. Murray at first failed to recognize M. de
Saint-Luc, and asked him angrily how he dared disturb
him at such an hour, or what tidings he could bring of
such pressing importance.</p>

<p>"An affair which you will assuredly consider worthy
of some attention, sir, for I am Captain de Saint-Luc,
and my presence here will tell you the rest."</p>

<p>General Murray turned as pale as death. Presently
he called for refreshments, and, treating Saint-Luc with
the most profound consideration, he inquired of him the
fullest particulars of the wreck. He was no longer the
same man who had carelessly consigned so many brave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">227</a></span>
officers to their doom just because the sight of their uniforms
displeased him.</p>

<p>What M. de Saint-Luc had foreseen presently came
to pass. Thenceforward Governor Murray, conscience-stricken
by the loss of the Auguste, became very lenient
toward the Canadians, and those who wished to remain
in the colony were given liberty to do so. M. de Saint-Luc,
in particular, whose possible revelations he may
have dreaded, became the special object of his favor,
and found nothing to complain of in the governor's attitude.
He set his tremendous energies to the work of
repairing his fortunes, and his efforts were crowned with
well-merited success.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">228</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">LOCHIEL AND BLANCHE.</span></h2>
</div>

<p>After seven long years of severe privation, content
and even happiness came back to the D'Habervilles.
It is true that the great manor house had been replaced
by a somewhat humble dwelling; but it was a palace
compared to the mill they had just left. The D'Habervilles
had, moreover, suffered less than many others in
the same position. Loved and respected by their tenants,
they had suffered none of those humiliations which
the vulgar often inflict upon their betters in distress.
The D'Habervilles had never forgotten that it is the
privilege of the upper classes to treat their inferiors with
respect. They were <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'beseiged'">besieged</ins> with offers of service.
When it was decided to rebuild the manor, the whole
parish volunteered its assistance to help along the work.
Every man labored with as much zeal as if it were his
own house he was building. With the delicate tact of
the Frenchman, they never entered, except as invited
guests, the poor chambers which the family had set
apart in the mill. If they had been affectionate toward
their seigneur in his prosperity, when the iron hand of
adversity was laid upon him they became his devoted
disciples.</p>

<p>Only they who have known great reverses, who have
suffered long and cruelly, can appreciate the blissful
content of them who again see better days. Hitherto<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">229</a></span>
all had respected Captain D'Haberville's grief, and in
his presence had scarcely spoken above their breath;
but now the natural gayety of the French heart reasserted
itself, and all was changed as by enchantment.</p>

<p>The captain laughed and joked as he used to before
the war, the ladies sang as they busied themselves about
the house, and again the sonorous voice of Uncle Raoul
was heard on fine evenings arousing the echoes of the
cape. The faithful José was everywhere at once, and
tales of the experiences of his "late father, now dead"
flowed incessantly from his lips.</p>

<p>One morning toward the end of August, that same
year, Captain D'Haberville was returning from the river
Port-Joli, his gun on one shoulder and a well-filled
game-bag slung over the other, when he saw a small
boat put off from a ship which was anchored a little
way out. The boat made directly for the D'Habervilles'
landing. The captain sat on a rock to wait for it, imagining
that it contained some sailors in quest of milk and
fresh victuals. As they landed he was hastening forward
to meet them, when he saw with surprise that one
of them, who was dressed as a gentleman, was handing
a packet to one of the sailors and directing him to take
it to the manor house. At the sight of Captain D'Haberville
this gentleman seemed to change his mind suddenly,
for he stepped forward and handed him the packet with
these words:</p>

<p>"I have hardly dared hand you this packet myself,
Captain D'Haberville, although it contains news at
which you will rejoice."</p>

<p>"Why, sir," replied the captain, searching his memory
for the name of this person, whose face seemed half
familiar, "why should you have hesitated to hand me
the packet yourself if chance had not thrown me in your
way?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">230</a></span></p>

<p>"Because, sir," said the other, hesitating, "I might
have feared that it would be disagreeable to you to receive
it at my hands. I know that Captain D'Haberville
never forgets either a benefit or an injury."</p>

<p>Captain D'Haberville stared at the stranger; then,
frowning heavily, he shut his eyes and was silent for
some moments. The stranger, watching him intently,
could see that a violent struggle was raging in his breast.
Presently Captain D'Haberville recovered his self-possession
and said, with scrupulous politeness:</p>

<p>"Let us leave to each man's own conscience the remembrance
of past wrongs. You are here, Captain de
Lochiel, and as the bearer of letters from my son you
are entitled to every welcome on my part. The family
will be glad to see you. You will receive at my house&mdash;a
cordial hospitality." He was going to say bitterly
a princely hospitality, but the reproach died upon his
lips. The lion was as yet but half appeased.</p>

<p>Archie instinctively put out his hand to grasp that of
his old friend; but Captain D'Haberville responded
with a visible effort, and his hand lay passive in the
young man's clasp.</p>

<p>A sigh burst from Archie's lips, and for a time he
seemed uncertain what to do. At length he said sorrowfully:</p>

<p>"Captain D'Haberville can refuse to forgive him
whom once he loved and overwhelmed with benefits, but
he has too noble a soul to wantonly inflict a punishment
too great to be endured. To see again the places which
will recall such poignant memories will be trial enough
in itself, without meeting there the cold welcome which
hospitality extends to the stranger. Farewell, Captain
D'Haberville; farewell forever to him whom I once
called my father, if he will no longer regard me as a
son. I call Heaven to witness that every hour has been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">231</a></span>
embittered with remorse since the fatal day when my
duty as a soldier under orders forced me to enact a barbarism
at which my very soul sickened. I swear to you
that a great weight has lain ceaselessly upon my heart,
through the hours of excitement on the battle-field, of gayety
at ball and festival, not less than through the silence
of the long and weary nights. Farewell forever, for I
perceive that you have refused to hear from the lips of
the good superior the story of my pain and my despair.
Farewell for the last time, and, since all intercourse must
cease between us, tell me, oh, tell me, I implore you, that
some measure of peace and happiness has been restored
to your family! Oh, tell me that you are not continually
miserable! Nothing remains for me but to pray God
on my knees that he will shed his best blessings on a
family which I so deeply love! To offer to repair with
my own fortune the losses which I caused would be an
insult to a D'Haberville."</p>

<p>Though M. D'Haberville had refused to listen to his
sister, he had none the less been impressed by the recital
of M. de Saint-Luc, and by Archie's devotion in
offering to sacrifice his fortune and his future to a sentiment
of gratitude. Hence the degree of welcome with
which he had received him. Otherwise, it is probable
he would have turned his back upon him.</p>

<p>The suggestion of pecuniary compensation made M.
D'Haberville start as if he had been touched with a red-hot
iron; but this passing emotion was forgotten in the
conflict of his feelings. He clasped his breast with both
hands, as if he would tear out the bitterness which, in
spite of him, clung to his heart. Making Lochiel a sign
to remain where he was, he strode rapidly down the
shore; then he came back slowly and thoughtfully, and
said:</p>

<p>"I have done my utmost, Archie, to banish the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">232</a></span>
of my bitterness; but you know me, and you know it
will be a work of time to blot it completely from my remembrance.
All that I can say is that my heart forgives
you. My sister the superior told me all. I listened to
her, after hearing of your good offices in interceding
with the governor on my behalf, of which I learned
through my friend de Saint-Luc. I concluded that he
who was ready to sacrifice rank and fortune for his
friends could only have been acting by compulsion in
those circumstances to which I now allude for the last
time. If you should notice occasionally any coldness in
my attitude toward yourself, please pay no attention to
it. Let us leave it all to time."</p>

<p>He pressed Lochiel's hand cordially. The lion was
appeased.</p>

<p>"As it is probable," said M. D'Haberville, "that the
calm is going to continue, send back your sailors after
they have had something to eat; and if by chance a favorable
wind should arise, my good nag Lubine will
carry you to Quebec in six hours&mdash;that is, if your business
prevents your staying with us so long as we would
wish. This will be convenient for you, will it not?"</p>

<p>With these words, he passed his arm under that of
Archie and they walked together toward the house.</p>

<p>"Now, Archie," said the captain, "how does it happen
that you bring letters and good news from my son?"</p>

<p>"I left Jules in Paris seven weeks ago," answered
Archie, "after having stayed a month with him at the
house of his uncle M. de Germain, who did not wish
me to be separated from my friend during my stay in
France; but it will be pleasanter for you to learn all
from his own hand, so permit me to say no more."</p>

<p>If it saddened Lochiel to see what one would have
called before the conquest the D'Haberville village replaced
by three or four poor cottages, nevertheless, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">233</a></span>
had an agreeable surprise in the prosperous appearance
of the manor. These buildings, new and freshly white-washed,
this garden gay with flowers, these two orchards
laden with fine fruit, the harvesters returning from the
meadows with fragrant loads of hay&mdash;all this tended to
dissipate the impression of gloom that had at first almost
overwhelmed him. With the exception of a sofa and a
dozen arm-chairs of mahogany, and a few other small
articles of furniture snatched from the flames, everything
was of extreme simplicity within the new dwelling.
All the furniture was in plain wood. The walls were
guiltless of pictures, as the floors of carpets. The family
portraits, which had been the pride of the D'Habervilles,
no longer occupied their places in the dining-room; the
only ornaments of the new rooms were some fir-boughs
standing in the corners and a generous supply of flowers
in baskets made by the natives. This absence of
costly adornment, however, was not without its charm.
One breathed deeply in that atmosphere, wholesome
with the fragrance of fir-boughs, flowers, and new wood.
There was everywhere a flavor of freshness, which made it
hard to regret the absence of more costly appointments.</p>

<p>All the family, having seen M. D'Haberville in the
distance accompanied by a stranger, had gathered in the
drawing-room to receive him. Not having seen Archie
for ten years, nobody but Blanche recognized him. The
girl grew pale at the sight of the friend whom she had
never thought to see again; but recovering herself
promptly, as women will to conceal their strongest
feelings, like the other two ladies she made the deep
courtesy which she would have bestowed upon a
stranger. As for Uncle Raoul, he bowed with chilly
politeness. He had little love for the English, and ever
since the conquest he had been cursing them with an
eloquence not edifying to pious ears.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">234</a></span></p>

<p>"May I be roasted by an Iroquois," exclaimed the
captain, addressing Archie, "if a single one of us knew
you. Come, look at this gentleman; ten years ought not
to have blotted him from your memory. As for me, I
knew him at once. Speak, Blanche, you being the
youngest should have better eyes than the rest."</p>

<p>"I think," said Blanche in a low voice, "that it is
M. de Lochiel."</p>

<p>"Yes," said M. D'Haberville, "it is Archie, who has
seen Jules very lately in Paris. He brings us letters
from him, full of good news. What are you doing,
Archie, that you do not embrace your old friends?"</p>

<p>The family, ignorant of the change in the captain's
feelings, were only awaiting his consent to give Archie
a welcome whose warmth brought tears into his eyes.</p>

<p>The last letter from Jules contained the following
passage:</p>

<p>"I have been taking the waters of Baréges for my
wounds, and though I am still weak, I am getting well
rapidly. The doctors say that I must have rest, and
that it will be long before I am able to take the field
again. I have obtained an unlimited furlough. Our
relative the minister and all my friends counsel me to
leave the army and return to Canada, the new country
of all my family. They advise me to establish myself
there, after taking the oath of allegiance to the English
crown; but I will do nothing without consulting you.
My brother Archie, who has influential friends in England,
has sent me a letter of recommendation from one
high in authority to your governor, Sir Guy Carleton,
who, they say, shows great consideration for the Canadian
nobility. If on your advice I decide to remain in
Canada, I shall hope to be of some use to my poor
fellow-countrymen. God willing, I shall have the pleasure
of embracing you all again toward the end of September<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">235</a></span>
next. Oh, what happiness, after so long a separation!"</p>

<p>In a postscript Jules added:</p>

<p>"I was forgetting to tell you that I have been presented
to the King, who received me most kindly. He
even praised me for what he was pleased to call my
noble conduct, and made me a Knight of the Grand
Cross of the Most Honorable Order of St. Louis. I
know not to what pleasantry I owe this favor, which
every Frenchman who carried a sword has as much
deserved as I. I could name ten officers in my own
division who should have been decorated in my place.
It is true that I have had the precious advantage of
getting carved up like a fool in every battle. Truly it
is a pity that there was not an order for fools; then I
should have fairly won the distinction which his Most
Christian Majesty has just bestowed upon me. I hope,
however, that this act will not shut the gates of paradise
against him, and that St. Peter will find some other
little peccadilloes to object to. Otherwise, I should be
greatly concerned."</p>

<p>Lochiel could scarcely keep from laughing at the
words "Most Christian Majesty." He could see the
mocking smile with which his friend would write the
phrase.</p>

<p>"Always the same," exclaimed M. D'Haberville.</p>

<p>"And thinking only of others!" exclaimed the rest,
with one voice.</p>

<p>"I will wager my head to a shilling," said Archie,
"that he would rather have seen the honor bestowed
upon one of his friends."</p>

<p>"What a son!" exclaimed the mother.</p>

<p>"What a brother!" added Blanche.</p>

<p>"You may well say what a brother," exclaimed
Archie fervently.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">236</a></span></p>

<p>"And what a nephew have I trained up!" cried
Uncle Raoul, making passes in the air with his cane, as
if it were a saber and he on horseback. "There is a
prince who can distinguish merit, and who knows how
to reward it. His Majesty of France shows great discernment.
He knows that with a hundred officers like
Jules he could resume the offensive, overrun Europe
with triumphant armies, overleap the Detroit like another
William, crush proud Albion, and reconquer the
colonies!" Again Uncle Raoul carved the air in every
direction with his cane, to the imminent peril of the
eyes, noses, and chins of the rest of the company. Then
the chevalier looked about him proudly, and, with the
aid of his cane, he dragged himself to an arm-chair, to
repose after the laurels he had won for the King of
France by the help of a hundred officers like his
nephew.</p>

<p>The letters from Jules, and Archie's coming, made
that day one of feverish delight at D'Haberville Manor;
and Archie was pursued with incessant questions about
Jules, about their friends in France, about the Faubourg
St. Germain, about the court, and about his own adventures.
Archie wished then to see the servants. In the
kitchen, getting dinner, he found the mulatto woman Lisette,
who threw herself upon his neck as she used to do
when he came home for his holidays with Jules. Her
voice was choked with sobs of delight.</p>

<p>This woman, whom Captain D'Haberville had bought
when she was only four years old, had some failings,
but she was deeply attached to the family. She stood
in awe of no one but the master. Her mistress she regarded
as a sort of new comer, whom she obeyed or not
according to her whim.</p>

<p>Blanche and her brother were the only ones who
could do what they liked with her. Though Jules often<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">237</a></span>
tormented her sorely, she was always ready to laugh at
his tricks and shield him from their consequences.</p>

<p>Tried beyond all patience, M. D'Haberville had long
ago given her her freedom; but, to use her own words,
"she laughed at his emancipation like that," snapping
her fingers, "for she had as good a right as he and his
to remain in the house where she had been brought up."
If her master, too utterly exasperated, would dismiss her
by one door, she would promptly re-enter by the other.</p>

<p>This irrepressible woman was as much affected by
the misfortunes of her master as if she had been a
daughter of the family; and, strange to say, during all
the years when the captain was immersed in bitterness
and gloom, she was a model of obedience and submission,
and did the work of at least two servants. When
she was alone with Blanche she would sometimes throw
herself sobbing on her neck, and the brave girl would
forget her own griefs in comforting those of the slave.
It is necessary to add that when prosperity returned to
the family Lisette became as willful as before.</p>

<p>Leaving the kitchen, Lochiel ran to meet José, who
came singing up from the garden, laden with fruit and
vegetables.</p>

<p>"Excuse me if I give you my left hand," said José;
"I left the other behind me on the Plains of Abraham.
I bear no grudge, however, against the 'short petticoat'
(begging your pardon) who relieved me of it. The
thing was done so neatly right at the joint that the surgeon
had nothing left to do but bandage up the stump.
We came off about quits, nevertheless, the 'short petticoat'
and I, for I ran my bayonet through his body. It's
just as well after all, however, for what use would my
right hand be to me when there is no more fighting?
No more war now that the Englishman is master of the
land," added José, sighing.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">238</a></span></p>

<p>"It seems, my dear José," answered Lochiel,
laughing, "that you know pretty well how to do without
your right hand as long as the left remains to
you."</p>

<p>"Very true," said José. "I can manage when I'm
driven to it, as in the scrimmage with the 'short petticoat';
but I confess that it grieves me to be thus
crippled. Both hands would have been none too many
to serve my master with. The times have been hard,
indeed; but, thank God, the worst is over." And tears
welled up in the faithful José's eyes.</p>

<p>Lochiel then betook himself to the harvesters, who
were busy raking the hay and loading the carts. They
were all old acquaintances, who greeted him warmly;
for all the family, the captain excepted, had been at
pains to exonerate him. The dinner, served with the
greatest simplicity, was nevertheless lavish in its abundance,
thanks to the game with which shore and forest
were swarming at this season. The silver had been reduced
to the limits of strict necessity; besides the
spoons, forks, and drinking-cups, there remained but a
single jug of ancient pattern, graven with the D'Haberville
arms, to attest the former opulence of the family.
The dessert consisted of the fruits of the season, brought
in on maple leaves, in birch-bark <i>cassots</i> and baskets ingeniously
woven by the Indians. A little glass of black-currant
ratafia before dinner to sharpen the appetite,
spruce beer made out of the branches of the tree, and
Spanish wine which they drank much tempered with
water, these were the only liquors that the hospitality of
Seigneur D'Haberville could set before his guest. This
did not prevent the meal from being pervaded with
kindly gayety; the family seemed to be entering upon a
new life. But for his dread of wounding Archie, Captain
D'Haberville would not have failed to joke upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">239</a></span>
the absence of champagne, which was replaced by the
sparkling spruce beer.</p>

<p>"Now that we are <i>en famille</i>," said the captain, smiling
at Archie, "let us talk of the future of my son. As
for me, old and worn out before my time with the
fatigues of war, I have a good excuse for not serving the
new government. It would not be for me, moreover, at
my age, to draw the sword against France, whom I have
served for more than thirty years. Rather death, a
hundred times!"</p>

<p>"And, like Hector the Trojan," interrupted Uncle
Raoul, "we can all say:</p>

<p>
<i>Si Pergama dextra</i><br />
<i>Defendi possent, etiam hâc defensa fuissent</i>."<br />
</p>

<p>"Never mind Hector the Trojan," exclaimed M.
D'Haberville who, not being as learned as his brother,
had small taste for his quotations. "Never mind
Hector the Trojan, who was not greatly concerned
with our family affairs. Let us return to Jules. His
health compels him to withdraw from the service, perhaps
for a long time, or even permanently. His dearest
interests are here where he was born. Canada is
his true fatherland. He can not have the same affection
for the land of his ancestors. His position, moreover,
is very different from mine. What would be
cowardice for me, standing on the edge of the tomb, is
but an act of duty for him who is but on the threshold
of life. Splendidly has he paid his debt to the country
of his fathers. He retires honorably from a service
which the doctors order him to leave. Now let him
consecrate his energy and his abilities to the service of
his fellow Canadians. The new governor is already well
disposed toward us. He welcomes those of my countrymen
who have intercourse with him. He has many
times expressed his sympathy for the brave officers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">240</a></span>
whom he had met face to face on the battle-field, and
whom fate, not their courage, had betrayed. In the
gatherings at Chateau St. Louis he shows the same regard
for Canadians as for his own countrymen, as much
for those of us who have lost all as for those more fortunate
who can maintain a dignity suitable to their
rank. Under his administration and supported by the
strong recommendations which our friend Lochiel has
procured for him, Jules has every reason to hope for a
high position in the colony. Let him take the oath of
allegiance to the English crown; and my last words
when I bid him a final farewell shall be: 'Serve your
English sovereign with the same zeal, devotion, and
loyalty with which I have served the French King, and
receive my blessing.'"</p>

<p>Every one was struck by this sudden change of sentiment
in the head of the family. They forgot that Adversity
is a hard master, who bends the most stubborn
heart beneath his grasp of steel. Captain D'Haberville,
too proud and too loyal to acknowledge openly
that Louis XV had wronged the subjects who had
served him with a heroism so devoted, nevertheless, felt
keenly the ingratitude of the French court. Although
stung to the quick by such treatment, he was ready to
shed the last drop of his blood for this voluptuous monarch
given over to the whims of his mistresses. But
there his devotion ceased. He would have refused for
himself the favors of the new government; but he was
too just to sacrifice his son's future to a sentiment with
so slight a basis.</p>

<p>"Let each one now express his opinion freely," said
the captain, smiling, "and let the majority decide."
The ladies answered this appeal by throwing themselves
into his arms. Uncle Raoul seized his brother's hand,
shook it vigorously, and exclaimed:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">241</a></span></p>

<p>"Nestor of old could not have spoken more wisely."</p>

<p>"Nor could we have been more delighted," said
Archie, "if we had had the advantage of listening to the
very words of that most venerable Grecian."</p>

<p>As the tide was full and the river beautifully calm,
Archie proposed to Blanche a walk along the lovely
shore, which stretches&mdash;varied with sandy coves&mdash;from
the manor to the little Port-Joli River.</p>

<p>"Everything I see," said Archie, as they moved along
the river's edge, the level rays of the sunset making a
path of red gold from their feet to the far-off mountains,
"everything I see is rich with sweet memories. Here,
when you were a child, I taught you to play with the
shells which I picked up along this shore. In this little
bay I taught my brother Jules to swim. There are the
same strawberry beds and raspberry thickets whence we
plucked the fruit you were so fond of. Here, seated,
book in hand, on this little rock, you used to wait the
return of Jules and me from hunting, to congratulate us
on our success or mock at our empty game-bags. Not a
tree, a bush, a shrub, but looks to me like an old and
dear acquaintance. Oh, happy childhood, happy youth!
Ever rejoicing in the present, forgetful of the past, careless
of the future, life rolls along as gently as the current
of this pretty stream which we are now crossing. It was
then that we were wise, Jules and I, when our highest
ambition was to pass our days together here, happy in
our work and our hunting."</p>

<p>"Just such a life of monotony and peace," interrupted
Blanche, "is that to which our sex is doomed.
God in giving man strength and courage set him apart
for the loftier destinies. What must be the enthusiasm
of a man in the midst of the battle! What sight more
sublime than that of the soldier facing death a hundred
times in the tumult for all he holds most dear! What<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">242</a></span>
must be the fierce exultation of the warrior when the
bugles sound for victory!"</p>

<p>This noble girl knew of no glory but that of arms.
Her father, almost incessantly in the field, came back to
the bosom of his family only to rehearse the exploits of
his comrades-in-arms; and Blanche, while yet a child,
had become steeped with martial ardor.</p>

<p>"There are triumphs all too dearly bought," answered
Archie, "when one considers the disasters that have followed
in their train, when one remembers the tears of
the widow and the orphan, robbed of their dearest!
But here we are at the Port-Joli, well named, with
its sunny banks gay with wild-rose thickets, its groves
of fir and spruce, and its coverts of red willow. What
memories cling about this lovely stream! I see again
your gentle mother and your good aunt seated here on
the grass on a fair evening in August, while we are paddling
up-stream, in our little green canoe, to Babin's
Islet, keeping time with our paddles as we sing in chorus
the refrain of your pretty song:</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">We're afloat, we're afloat, on the water so blue,<br />
We are bound for our isle of delight.<br /></div></div></div>

<p>I hear again the voice of your mother calling repeatedly:
'Go and get Blanche at once, you incorrigibles;
it is supper-time, and you know your father expects
punctuality at meals.' And Jules would answer, paddling
with all his might, 'Do not fear my father's anger.
I will take the whole responsibility on my own shoulders.
I will make him laugh by telling him that, like
His Majesty Louis XIV, he had expected to wait. You
know I am a spoiled child in the holidays.'"</p>

<p>"Dear fellow!" said Blanche, "he was sad enough
that day when you and I found him hiding in this fir
grove, where he had concealed himself to escape the
first heat of father's indignation.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">243</a></span></p>

<p>"And he had not done anything so very dreadful
after all," said Archie, laughing.</p>

<p>"Let us enumerate his crimes," replied Blanche,
counting on her fingers. "First, he had disobeyed father's
orders by harnessing to the carriage an unruly three-year-old
filly which was scarcely to be managed even in
a sleigh. Secondly, after a hard tussle with the rash
young driver, the filly had taken the bit in her teeth, and
as the first proof of her freedom had crushed the unhappy
cow belonging to our neighbor Widow Maurice."</p>

<p>"A most happy accident for said widow," interposed
Archie, "for your father replaced the old animal with
two of the finest heifers in his pastures. I remember
the anxiety of the poor woman when she learned that
some officious spectator had informed your father of the
accident. How does it happen that the people whom
Jules tormented most assiduously are just the ones who
were most devoted to him? What is the spell by which
he compels everybody to love him? Widow Maurice
used to have hardly a moment's peace while we were
home for the holidays; yet she was always in tears when
she came to bid Jules good-by."</p>

<p>"The reason is not far to seek," said Blanche. "It
is that all know his kind heart. You know, moreover,
by experience, Archie, that those whom he loves best
are just the ones that he teases most unremittingly. But
let us continue our enumeration of his misdemeanors on
that unlucky day! Thirdly, after killing the cow, the
ugly brute ran against a fence, broke one of the wheels,
and hurled the driver fifteen feet into the meadow beyond;
but Jules, who always falls on his feet, like a cat,
was in no way the worse for this adventure. Fourthly,
and lastly, after smashing the carriage to splinters on
the rocks of the Trois Saumons River, the mare ended<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">244</a></span>
by breaking her own legs on the shore, over in the parish
of L'Islet."</p>

<p>"Yes," added Archie, "and I remember how eloquently
you pleaded for the culprit, who, in despair at
having so deeply offended so good a father, was in danger
of proceeding to rash extremities against himself.
'Dear papa,' you said, 'should you not rather thank
heaven for having preserved Jules's life? What matters
the loss of a cow, a horse, a carriage? You might have
seen his bleeding body brought home to you!' 'Come,
let us talk no more about it,' was your father's reply.
'Go and look for your rascal of a brother, for I doubt
not you and Archie know where he has taken refuge
after his nice performances!' "I see yet," continued
Archie, "the half-penitent, half-comical air of Jules when
he knew the storm had blown over. 'What, my father,'
he ended by saying, after listening to some energetic remonstrances,
'would you have preferred to see me
dragged to my death, like another Hippolytus, by the
horse which your hands had nourished to be the murderer
of your son? Would you have chosen to see my
ensanguined locks dangling on the brambles?' To which
the captain answered: 'Come, let's to supper, since
there seems to be a God for such madcaps as you.'
'Now, that's more like the way to talk to a fellow,' was
Jules's response. I never could quite understand," continued
Archie, "why your father, who is ordinarily so
unforgiving, used to forgive and forget so easily any
offense of Jules."</p>

<p>"Father knows," said Blanche, "that Jules loves him
devotedly, and would endure anything to spare him
pain. For all his headlong thoughtlessness, Jules could
never offend my father deeply."</p>

<p>"Now that we have called up so many pleasant
memories," said Archie, "let us sit down on this hillock<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">245</a></span>
where we have so often before rested, and let us speak
of more serious matters. I have decided to settle in
Canada. I have lately sold a property which was left to
me by one of my cousins. My fortune, although but
moderate in the old country, will be counted large out
here, where my happiest days have been spent, and
where I propose to live and die among my friends.
What do you say, Blanche?"</p>

<p>"Nothing in the world could please us more. Oh,
how happy Jules will be, how glad we will all be!"</p>

<p>"Yes, you will all be pleased, doubtless; but my
happiness can never be perfect, Blanche, unless you will
consent to make it so by giving me your hand. I
love&mdash;"</p>

<p>The girl sprang to her feet as if an adder had stung
her. With trembling lips and pale with anger, she cried:</p>

<p>"You offend me, Captain de Lochiel! You have
not considered the cruelty of the offer you are making
me! Is it now you make me such a proposal, when the
flames that you and yours have lighted in my unhappy
country are hardly yet extinguished? Is it now, while
the smoke yet rises from our ruined homes, that you
offer me the hand of one of our destroyers? There
would, indeed, be a bitter irony in lighting the marriage
torch at the smoking ashes of my unhappy country!
They would say, Captain de Lochiel, that your gold had
bought the hand of the poor Canadian girl; and never
will a D'Haberville endure such humiliation. O Archie!
Archie! I would never have expected it of you, you
the friend of my childhood! You know not what you
are doing!" And Blanche burst into tears.</p>

<p>Never had the noble Canadian girl appeared so beautiful
in Archie's eyes as now, when she rejected with
proud disdain the hand of one of her country's conquerors.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">246</a></span></p>

<p>"Calm yourself, Blanche," answered Lochiel. "I
admire your patriotism. I appreciate the exalted delicacy
of your sentiments, however unjust they may be
toward the friend of your childhood. Never would a
Cameron of Lochiel give offense to any lady, least of all
to the sister of Jules D'Haberville, to the daughter of his
benefactor. You know, Blanche, that I never act without
due reflection. For you to reject with scorn the
hand of an Englishman so soon after the conquest
would be but natural in a D'Haberville; but as for me,
Blanche, you know that I have loved you long&mdash;you
could not be ignorant of it, in spite of my silence. The
penniless young exile would have failed in every honorable
sentiment had he declared his love for the daughter
of his rich benefactor. Is it because I am rich now, is
it because the chance of war has made us victorious in
the struggle, is it because fate made of me an unwilling
instrument of destruction, is it because of all this that I
must bury in my heart one of the noblest emotions of
our nature, and acknowledge myself defeated without an
effort? No, Blanche, you surely can not think it; you
have spoken without reflection; you regret the harsh
words which have escaped you. Speak, Blanche, and
say that you did not mean it."</p>

<p>"I will be candid with you, Archie," replied Blanche.
"I will be as frank as a peasant girl who has studied
neither her feelings nor her words&mdash;as a country girl
who has forgotten the conventionalities of that society
from which she has so long been banished&mdash;and I will
speak with my heart upon my lips. You had all that
could captivate a girl of fifteen years&mdash;noble birth, wit,
beauty, strength, and a generous and lofty heart. What
more could be needed to charm an enthusiastic girl?
Archie, if the penniless young exile had asked my parents
for my hand, and they had granted his request, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">247</a></span>
should have been proud and happy to obey. But, Captain
de Lochiel, there is now a gulf between us which I
will never cross." And again the girl's voice was choked
with sobs.</p>

<p>"But I implore you, my brother Archie," continued
she, taking his hand, "do not alter your intention of
settling in Canada. Buy property in our neighborhood,
so that we can see you continually. And if, in the ordinary
course of nature (for you are eight years older than
I), I should have the unhappiness to lose you, be sure
that you would be mourned as bitterly by your sister
Blanche as if she had been your wife. And now it is
getting late, Archie, and we must return to the house,"
she added, pressing his hand affectionately between both
of hers.</p>

<p>"You will never be so cruel toward me and toward
yourself," cried Archie, "as to persist in this refusal!
Yes, toward yourself, Blanche, for the love of a heart
like yours does not die out like a common passion; it
resists time and all vicissitudes. Jules will plead my
cause on his return, and his sister will not refuse him his
first request. Oh, tell me that I may hope!"</p>

<p>"Never, Archie, never," said Blanche. "The women
of my family, as well as the men, have never failed in
their duty&mdash;have never shrunk from any sacrifice, however
painful. Two of my aunts, while yet very young,
said one day to my father: 'You have no more than
enough, D'Haberville, to maintain the dignity of the
house. Our dowry would make a considerable breach
in your means. To-morrow we shall enter a convent,
where all is prepared to receive us.' Prayers, threats,
the fury of my father&mdash;all proved vain; they entered
the convent, where they have not wearied of good deeds
to this day. As for me, Archie, I have other duties to
perform&mdash;duties very dear to me. I must sweeten life<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">248</a></span>
as far as possible for my parents, must help them to forget
their misfortunes, must care for them in their old
age, and must close their eyes at the last. My brother
Jules will marry; I will nurse his children, and share
alike his good and evil fortune."</p>

<p>Lochiel and Blanche walked toward the house in
silence. The last rays of the setting sun, mirrored in
the swelling tide, lent a new charm to the enchanting
scene; but to their eyes the loveliness of nature seemed
to have suddenly faded out. The next day, toward
evening, a favorable wind arose. The vessel which had
brought Lochiel weighed anchor at once, and M. D'Haberville
instructed José to convey his young friend to
Quebec.</p>

<p>During the journey there was no lack of conversation
between the two travelers; their subjects were inexhaustible.
Toward five o'clock in the morning, however,
as they were passing Beaumont, Lochiel said to José:</p>

<p>"I am as sleepy as a marmot. We sat up late yesterday,
and I was so feverish that I got no sleep for
the rest of the night. Do sing me a song to keep me
awake."</p>

<p>He knew the hoarseness and vigor of his companion's
voice, and he put great faith in it as an anti-soporific.</p>

<p>"I can not refuse," answered José, who, like many
others blessed with a discordant voice, prided himself
greatly on his singing. "The more sleepy you are the
more risk you run of breaking your head on the rocks,
which have never been cleared away since La Corriveau's
memorable trip; but I hardly know what to begin
with. How would you like a song on the taking of
Berg-op-Zoom?"</p>

<p>"Berg-op-Zoom will do," said Archie, "though the
English were pretty badly treated there."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">249</a></span></p>

<p>"Hem! hem!" coughed José. "Nothing like a
little revenge on the enemy that handled us so roughly
in '59." And he struck up the following:</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">"A Te Deum for him who was born the doom (<i>repeat</i>)<br />
Of the stout-walled city of Berg-op-Zoom (<i>repeat</i>).<br />
By'r lady, he wants the best that's going,<br />
Who can do up a siege in a style so knowing."<br /></div></div></div>

<p>"How charmingly <i>naïve</i>!" cried Lochiel.</p>

<p>"Is it not, captain?" said José, very proud of his
success.</p>

<p>"Indeed, yes, my dear José; but go on. I am in a
hurry to hear the end. Do not halt upon so good a
road."</p>

<p>"Thank you, captain," said José, touching his cap.</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">"Like Alexander who lived of old (<i>repeat</i>),<br />
His body is small, but his heart is bold (<i>repeat</i>).<br />
God gave him all Alexander's wit,<br />
And Cæsar's wisdom on top of it!"<br /></div></div></div>

<p>"'His body is small but his heart is bold,'" repeated
Archie, "is a very happy touch! Where did you pick
up this song?"</p>

<p>"A grenadier who was at the siege of Berg-op-Zoom
sang it to my late father. He said that it was terribly
hot work there, and he carried the marks of it. He
had only one eye left, and the skin was torn off his face
from his forehead to his jaw-bone; but, as all these
damages were on the left side, he still could manage his
gun properly on the right. But let us leave him to look
out for himself. He is a jolly lad who would dance a
jig on his own grave, and I need not concern myself
about him. Here's the third and last verse:</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">"Oh, we combed the hides of the English well (<i>repeat</i>),<br />
A very bad lot, as I've heard tell! (<i>repeat</i>)<br />
They'll shake, by'r lady, till they get home,<br />
For fear of our boys and their curry-comb."<br /></div></div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">250</a></span></p>

<p>"Delightful, 'pon honor!" cried Lochiel. "These
English who were a very bad lot! These soldiers armed
with the curry-comb! How exquisitely <i>naïve</i>! Charming!"</p>

<p>"By our lady, though, captain," said José, "they are
not always so easy to comb, these English. Like our
good horse Lubine here, they are sometimes very bad-humored
and ugly to handle if one rubs them too hard.
Witness the first battle of the Plains of Abraham!"</p>

<p>"It was the English, was it not, who carried the
curry-comb then?" remarked Archie.</p>

<p>For reply, José merely lifted up the stump of his arm,
around which he had twisted the leather of his whip.</p>

<p>For a time our travelers journeyed on in silence, and
again Archie grew heavy with sleep. Perceiving this,
José cried:</p>

<p>"Captain, captain, you're nearly asleep! Take care,
or you're going to break your nose, begging your pardon.
I think you want another song to wake you up.
Shall I sing you the Complaint of Biron?"</p>

<p>"Who was Biron?" inquired Lochiel.</p>

<p>"Uncle Raoul, who is so learned, told me that he
was a prince, a great warrior, the relative and friend of
our late King Henry IV; which did not prevent the
latter from having him executed just as if he was a nobody.
When I made my lament upon his death, Uncle
Raoul and the captain told me that he had proved a
traitor to the king, and forbid me even to sing the complaint
in their presence. This struck me as rather droll,
but I obeyed them all the same."</p>

<p>"I have never heard of this lament," said Archie;
"and as I am not particularly sensitive in regard to the
kings of France, I wish you would sing it for me."</p>

<p>Thereupon José struck up, in a voice of thunder, the
following lament:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">251</a></span></p>


<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">"The king he had been warned by one of his <i>gens d'armes</i>,<br />
(His name it was La Fin, that gave him the alarm,)<br />
'Your Majesty, I pray you, of Prince Biron beware,<br />
For he's plotting wicked deeds, and there's treason in the air.'<br /></div>

<div class="stanza">"La Fin had hardly spoke when Prince Biron came in,<br />
His cap was in his hand, and he bowed before the king.<br />
Said he: 'Will't please Your Majesty to try your hand at play?<br />
Here's a thousand Spanish doubloons that I have won this day.'<br /></div>

<div class="stanza">"'If you have them with you, prince,' replied His Majesty,<br />
'If you have them with you, prince, go find the queen, and she<br />
Will play you for the Spanish gold you have not long to see!'<br /></div>

<div class="stanza">"He had not played two games when the constable came in,<br />
And bowing, cap in hand, right courtly said to him:<br />
'Oh, will you rise up, prince, and come along with me?<br />
This night in the Bastile your bed and board shall be!'<br /></div>

<div class="stanza">"'Oh, had I but my sword, my weapon bright and keen,<br />
Oh, had I but my saber, my knife of golden sheen,<br />
No constable could capture me that ever I have seen!'<br /></div>

<div class="stanza">"It might have been a month, or may be two weeks more,<br />
That no friends came to see him or passed his prison door;<br />
At last came judges three, pretending not to know,<br />
And asked of him, 'Fair prince, oh, who has used you so?'<br /></div>

<div class="stanza">"'Oh, they who used me so had power to put me here;<br />
It was the king and queen, whom I served for many a year;<br />
And now for my reward my death it draweth near!<br /></div>

<div class="stanza">"'And does the king remember no more the Savoy War?<br />
And has the king forgotten the wounds for him I bore?<br />
And is it my true service now that I must suffer for?<br /></div>

<div class="stanza">"'And has the king forgotten that if I have to die,<br />
The blood of Biron may to Heaven for <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'vengance'">vengeance</ins> cry?<br />
Or does the king remember I have a brother yet?<br />
But when <i>he</i> sees the king he will not me forget.'"<br /></div></div>


<p>By this time Lochiel was thoroughly awake. The
tremendous voice of José would have awakened the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">252</a></span>
sleeping beauty herself from the depths of her hundred
years' slumber.</p>

<p>"But you, sir," said José, "you who are nearly as
learned as Uncle Raoul, you could perhaps tell me
something of this wicked king who so ungratefully put
this poor M. Biron to death."</p>

<p>"Kings, my dear José, never forget a personal offense,
and, like a great many smaller people who can
not overlook the faults of others, no matter how well
atoned for, for faithful services, their memory is very
short."</p>

<p>"Well, now, but that seems very queer to me, when
I was thinking that the good God had given them everything
that heart could wish! A short memory! But
that is droll."</p>

<p>Smiling at his companion's innocence, Archie replied:</p>

<p>"King Henry IV, however, had an excellent memory,
although it failed him in that one instance. He
was a good prince and loved his subjects as if they
were his own children, and he did all he could to make
them happy. It is not surprising that his memory is
cherished by all good Frenchmen, even after a lapse of
one hundred and fifty years."</p>

<p>"By our lady," exclaimed José, "there's nothing
surprising in that, if the subjects have a better memory
than their princes! It was cruel of him, however, to
hang this poor M. Biron."</p>

<p>"The nobility of France were never hung," said
Archie. "That was one of their special privileges.
They simply had their heads cut off."</p>

<p>"That was indeed a privilege. It may perhaps hurt
more, but it is much more glorious to die by the sword
than by the rope," remarked José.</p>

<p>"To return to Henry IV," said Archie; "we must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">253</a></span>
not be too severe in our condemnation of him. He
lived in a difficult period, a period of civil war. Biron,
his kinsman and former friend, turned traitor, and was
doubly deserving of his fate."</p>

<p>"Poor M. Biron!" said José; " but he speaks finely
in his lament."</p>

<p>"It is not always they who speak the best who have
most right on their side," remarked Archie. "There is
no one so like an honest man as an eloquent knave."</p>

<p>"All very true, Mr. Archie. We have one poor
thief in our district, and as he doesn't know how to
defend himself, everybody is continually getting his
teeth into him, while his brother, who is a hundred
times worse than he, has so smooth a tongue that he
passes himself off for a little saint. Meanwhile, yonder
is Quebec! But no more the white flag waving over
her," added José, sighing.</p>

<p>To hide his emotion, he went searching in all his
pockets for his pipe, grumbling to himself and repeating
his old refrain:</p>

<p class="center">
"Our good folk will come again."</p>

<p>José spent two days in Quebec, and returned loaded
with all the presents that Archie thought would find
acceptance at D'Haberville Manor. Such rich gifts as
he would have sent under other circumstances he dared
not send now, for fear of wounding his friends. In
bidding José farewell, he said:</p>

<p>"I left my prayer-book at the manor house. Beg
Miss Blanche to take care of it till I return. It was
a keepsake."</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">254</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">THE FAMILY HEARTH.</span></h2>
</div>

<p>Many a calamity had swept over the land since
the day when the relations and friends of Jules had
gathered at the manor house to bid him farewell before
his departure for France. Among the old men
time had made his customary inroads. The enemy
had carried fire and sword into the peaceful dwellings
of the <i>habitants</i>. The famine numbered its victims by
the hundred. The soil had been drenched with the
blood of its brave defenders. Wind and sea had conspired
against many of those brave officers from whom
sword and bullet had turned aside. Nature was satiated
with the blood of the children of New France. The
future was dark indeed for the upper classes, already
ruined by the havoc of the enemy, for those who, in
laying by the sword, were compelled to lay by the main
support of their families, and for those who foresaw that
their descendants, reduced to a lower walk in life,
would be compelled to till the soil which their valiant
ancestors had made illustrious.</p>

<p>The city of Quebec, which of old had seemed to
brave, upon its hill summit, the thunders of the heaviest
guns and the assaults of the most daring battalions, the
proud city of Quebec, still incumbered with wreckage,
raised itself with difficulty out of its ruins. The British
flag streamed triumphant from its overbearing citadel,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">255</a></span>
and the Canadian who, by force of habit, used to raise
his eyes to the height in expectation of seeing the lily
banner, would drop them again sadly, repeating with a
sigh these touching words, "But our good kin will
come again."</p>

<p>The reader will doubtless be gratified to see his old
acquaintances, after so many disasters bravely endured,
once more gathered together at a little banquet.
This was a feast given by M. D'Haberville in honor of
his son's return. Even "the good gentleman" himself,
though nearing the close of his century, had responded
in person to the summons. Captain des Ecors, a comrade
of M. D'Haberville, a brave officer who had been
brought to ruin by the conquest, formed with his family a
congenial addition to the gathering. One of Jules's
kinsfolk who perished in the wreck of the Auguste had
left him a small legacy, which brought a new comfort to
the D'Habervilles, and enabled them to exercise a hospitality
from which they had been long and reluctantly
debarred.</p>

<p>All the guests were at table, after vainly waiting for
the arrival of Lochiel, who was as a rule the most punctual
of men.</p>

<p>"Well, my friends," said M. D'Haberville, "what
think you now of the omens which so saddened me
ten years ago? What is your opinion, Monsieur the
Curé, of those mysterious warnings which Heaven appeared
to send me?"</p>

<p>"I think," answered the priest, "that every one has
had, or imagined himself to have, more or less mysterious
warnings, even in the most remote epochs. But,
without going too far back, Roman history is rife with
prodigies and portents. Occurrences the most insignificant
were classed as good or bad omens. The soothsayers
consulted the flight of birds, the entrails of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">256</a></span>
sacrificial victims, and what not! Further, they say
that no two of these holy and veracious personages could
look at each other without laughing."</p>

<p>"And you conclude from this&mdash;?" queried M. D'Haberville.</p>

<p>"I conclude," said the priest, "that we need not
greatly concern ourselves about such manifestations.
Supposing Heaven were pleased, in certain exceptional
cases, to give visible signs as to the future, this would
but add one more to the already numberless ills of poor
humanity. We are by nature superstitious, and we should
be kept in a state of feverish apprehension, far worse
than the actual evils supposed to be foreshadowed."</p>

<p>"Well," said M D'Haberville, who, like many more,
consulted others merely as a matter of form, "my own
experience compels me to believe that such omens are
very often to be trusted. To me they have never played
false. Besides those which you yourselves have witnessed,
I could cite you a host of others. For instance,
about fifteen years ago I was leading a war party against
the Iroquois. My band was made up of Canadians and
Huron Indians. We were on the march, when suddenly
I felt a sharp pain in my thigh, as if I had been struck
by some hard substance. The pang was sharp enough
to make me halt a moment. I told my Indians about
it. They looked at each other uneasily, consulted the
horizon, and breathed deeply, sniffing the air in every
direction, like dogs in quest of game. Then, certain
that there were no enemies in the neighborhood, they
resumed their march. I asked Petit-Étienne, the chief,
who appeared uneasy, if he was dreading a surprise.
'Not that I know of,' said he, 'but at our first encounter
with the enemy you will be wounded just where you
felt the pain.' Of course I laughed at the prediction;
but for all that, not two hours later an Iroquois bullet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">257</a></span>
went through my thigh at the spot in question, fortunately
escaping the bone. No, gentlemen; omens have
proved faithful in my own case."</p>

<p>"And what thinks Monsieur the Chevalier?" asked
the priest.</p>

<p>"I think," said Uncle Raoul, "that there is good
wine on the table, and that it is our pressing duty to
attack it."</p>

<p>"An admirable decision!" cried everybody.</p>

<p>"The wine," remarked Jules, "is the most faithful
of presages, for it announces happiness and mirth. In
proof of it, here is our friend Lochiel coming up the
avenue. I am going to meet him."</p>

<p>"You see, my dear Archie," said the captain, greeting
him warmly, "you see that we have treated you
without ceremony, as a child of the family. We only
waited for you half an hour. Knowing your soldierly
punctuality, we feared that some unavoidable business
had prevented your coming."</p>

<p>"I should have been much grieved if you had treated
me otherwise than as a child of the family," answered
Archie. "I had planned to be here quite early this
morning, but I did not make sufficient allowance for
your fine quagmire at Cap St.-Ignace. First of all, my
horse got into a bog-hole, whence I extricated him at
the cost of the harness, which I had to do without as
best I could. Then I broke a wheel of my carriage,
whereupon I had to go and seek help at the nearest
house, about a mile and a half away. For most of the
distance I was wading through mud up to my knees, and
when I got there I was half dead with fatigue."</p>

<p>"Ah, my dear Archie," said Jules, the ceaseless
mocker, "<i>quantum mutatus ab illo</i>, as Uncle Raoul would
have said if I hadn't got ahead of him. Where are your
mighty legs, of which you were once so proud in that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">258</a></span>
same morass? Have they lost their agility since the
28th of April, 1760? They served you admirably in
that retreat, as I predicted they would."</p>

<p>"It is true," replied Lochiel, laughing heartily, "that
they did not fail me in the <i>retreat</i> of 1760, as you so
considerately call it, but, my dear Jules, you had no
reason to complain of your own, short as they are, in the
retreat of 1759. One compliment deserves another you
know, always with due regard to a soldier's modesty."</p>

<p>"Ah, but you're all astray there, my dear fellow. A
scratch which I had received from an English bullet was
interfering very seriously with my flight, when a tall
grenadier who had somehow taken a fancy to me, threw
me over his shoulder with no more ceremony than as if
I were his haversack, and, continuing his retreat at full
speed, deposited me at length within the walls of Quebec.
It was time. In his zeal, the creature had carried
me with my head hanging down his rascally back, like a
calf on the way to the butcher's, so that I was almost
choked by the time he landed me. Would you believe
it, the rascal had the audacity some time afterward, to
ask me for a <i>pour-boire</i> for himself and his friends, who
were so glad to see their little grenadier once more upon
his feet; and I was fool enough to treat the crowd.
You see, I never could keep up a grudge. But here is
your dinner, piping hot, which your friend Lisette has
kept in the oven for you. To be sure, you deserve to
take your dinner in the kitchen, for the anxiety that you
have been causing us; but we'll let that pass. Here is
José bringing you an appetizer, according to the custom
of all civilized nations. The old fellow is so glad to see
you that he is showing his teeth from ear to ear. I
assure you that he is not one-handed when he is giving
his friends a drink, and still less so when, like his late
father, he is taking one himself."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">259</a></span></p>

<p>"Our young master," answered José, putting the
empty plate under his arm in order to shake Archie's
hand, "our young master is always at his jokes; but
Mr. Archie knows very well that if there was only one
glass of brandy left in the world I should give it to him
rather than drink it myself. As for my poor late father,
he was a very systematic man; so many drinks a day
and not a drop more&mdash;always barring weddings and festivals
and other special occasions. He knew how to
live with propriety, and also how to take his little recreations
from time to time, the worthy man! All I can
say is, that when he entertained his friends he didn't
keep the bottle under the table."</p>

<p>In The Vicar of Wakefield Goldsmith makes the
good pastor say:</p>

<p>"I can't say whether we had more wit among us than
usual, but I'm certain we had more laughing, which answered
the end as well."</p>

<p>The same might be said of the present gathering,
over which there reigned that French light-heartedness
which seems, alas, to be disappearing in what Homer
would call these degenerate days.</p>

<p>"Neighbor," said Captain D'Haberville to Captain
des Ecors, "if your little difficulty with General Murray
has not spoiled your throat for singing, please set a good
example by giving us a song."</p>

<p>"Indeed," said Archie, "I heard that you had great
difficulty in escaping the clutches of our bad-tempered
general, but I am unacquainted with the particulars."</p>

<p>"When I think of it, my friend," exclaimed Captain
des Ecors, "I feel something of a strangling sensation
in my throat. I should not complain, however, for in
my case the general conducted affairs in due order; instead
of hanging me first and trying me afterward, he
came to the wise conclusion that the trial had better<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">260</a></span>
precede the hanging. The fate of the unhappy miller
Nadeau, my fellow-prisoner, who was accused of the
same crime as myself, and who was not tried until after
his execution&mdash;the sad fate of this respectable man,
whose innocence he heard too late, led him to hesitate
before hanging me untried. In my captivity I passed
many a bad quarter of an hour. All communication
with the outside world was forbidden me. I had no
means of learning what fate was in store for me. Every
day I asked the sentinel who was walking up and down
beneath my window if he had any news for me, and ordinarily
I received in answer a cordial 'goddam.' At
last a soldier, more accessible and good-humored, who
could jabber a scrap of French, replied to my question,
'<i>Vous pendar sept heures le matingul!</i>' I believe this
jolly and sympathetic creature put all his knowledge of
French into that one phrase, for to every other question
I asked I received the same reply&mdash;'<i>Vous pendar sept
heures le matingul!</i>' It was easy to gather from this
that I was to be hung some morning at seven o'clock,
but what morning I could not learn. The outlook was
anything but cheerful. For three whole days I had seen
the body of the unfortunate Nadeau hanging from one
of the arms of his wind mill, the plaything of the gale.
Every morning I expected that I should be called to
take his place on this novel and ingenious gibbet."</p>

<p>"Infamous!" cried Archie. "And the man was
innocent!"</p>

<p>"This was proved at the inquest which was held
after the execution," replied Captain des Ecors. "I
should add that General Murray appeared to repent
with bitterness for this murder, which he had committed
in his haste. He heaped Nadeau's family with benefits,
and adopted his two little orphan daughters, whom he
took with him to England. Poor Nadeau!"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">261</a></span></p>

<p>All the company echoed the words "Poor Nadeau!"</p>

<p>"Alas!" said Des Ecor philosophically, "if we were
to set ourselves lamenting for all who have lost their
lives by&mdash;But let us change a subject so painful."
Then he sang the following song:</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"The new Narcissus am I named,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Whom all men most admire;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From water have I been reclaimed,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">In wine to drown my fire.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When I behold the rosy hue<br /></span>
<span class="i4">That gives my face renown,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Enraptured with the lovely view,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">I drink my image down.<br /></span></div>

<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"In all the universe is naught<br /></span>
<span class="i4">But tribute pays to thee;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Even the winter's ice is brought<br /></span>
<span class="i4">For thy benignant glee.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Earth exerts her anxious care<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Thy nurture to assist;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To ripen thee the sun shines fair;<br /></span>
<span class="i4">To drink thee I exist."<br /></span>
</div></div></div>


<p>The songs and choruses succeeded each other rapidly.
That contributed by Madame Vincelot wrought
up the merriment of the party to a high pitch.</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"This festal board, this royal cheer,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">They clearly tell<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(They clearly tell)<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Our host is glad to have us here,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And feast us well<br /></span>
<span class="i4">(And feast us well);<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For even he permits that we<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!<br /></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Now pour me out a glass, kind host,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Of this good wine (<i>repeat</i>),<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">262</a></span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I would drink a loving toast&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i4">This wife of thine (<i>repeat</i>),<br /></span>
<span class="i0">smilingly permits that we<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"<br /></span>
</div></div></div>


<p>To this Madame D'Haberville added the following
impromptu stanza:</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"If our endeavor to make your cheer<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Be not in vain (<i>repeat</i>),<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Consider you're the masters here,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And come again (<i>repeat</i>),<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And it shall be your care that we<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"<br /></span>
</div></div></div>


<p>Then Jules added a verse:</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Without a spice of rivalry<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Dan Cupid nods (<i>repeat</i>),<br /></span>
<span class="i0">challenge him to cups, and he<br /></span>
<span class="i4">'Ll accept the odds (<i>repeat</i>).<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bacchus and he, as well as we,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"<br /></span>
</div></div></div>


<p>At the end of each stanza every one pounded on the
table with their hands or rapped on the plates with
their forks and spoons, till the din became something
indescribable.</p>

<p>Blanche, being asked to sing her favorite song of
Blaise and Babette, endeavored to excuse herself and
substitute another; but the young ladies insisted, crying:
"Let us have Blaise and Babette by all means;
the minor is so touching."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Jules, "that is a minor, with its 'My
love it is my life'; a minor to touch the tenderest chord
in the feminine heart. Quick, let us have the sweet
minor, to touch the hearts of these charming young
ladies!"</p>

<p>"We'll make you pay for that in blindman's buff,"
said one of them.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">263</a></span></p>

<p>"And in the game of forfeits," said another.</p>

<p>"Look out for yourself, my boy," said Jules, addressing
himself, "for in the hands of these young ladies
you stand no better chance than a cat without claws
would in&mdash;hades! No matter. Sing away, my dear
sister. Your voice, perhaps, like that of Orpheus, will
assuage the fury of your enemies."</p>

<p>"The wretch!" chorused the young ladies, "to compare
us&mdash;But, never mind, we'll settle with you later.
Meanwhile, sing us the song, Blanche, dear."</p>

<p>The latter still hesitated. Then, fearing to attract
attention by her refusal, she sang the following song
with tears in her voice. It was the cry of a pure love
finding utterance, in spite of all her efforts to bury it
in her heart:</p>


<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"For thee, dear heart, these flowers I twine.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">My Blaise, accept of thy Babette<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The warm rose and the orange-flower,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And jessamine and violet.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Be not thy passion like the bloom,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">That shines a day and disappears.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My love is an undying light,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And will not change for time or tears.<br /></span>
</div>

<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Dear, be not like the butterfly<br /></span>
<span class="i4">That knows each blossom in the glades,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And cheapen not thy sighs and vows<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Among the laughing village maids.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Such loves are but the transient bloom<br /></span>
<span class="i4">That shines a day and disappears.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My love is an undying light,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And will not change for time or tears.<br /></span>
</div>

<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"If I should find my beauty fade,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">If I must watch these charms depart,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dear, see thou but my tenderness&mdash;<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Oh, look thou only on my heart!<br /></span>
</div>

<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">264</a></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, look thou only on my heart!<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Remember how the transient bloom<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shines for a day and disappears.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">My love is an undying light,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And will not change for time or tears."<br /></span>
</div></div></div>


<p>Every one was moved by her touching pathos, of
which they could not guess the true cause. They attributed
it, lamely enough, to her emotion on seeing
Jules thus brought back to the bosom of his family. To
divert their attention, Jules hastened to say:</p>

<p>"But it's myself that has brought the pretty song
with me from France."</p>

<p>"Let us have your pretty song," arose the cry on all
sides.</p>

<p>"No," said Jules, "I am keeping it for Mademoiselle
Vincelot, to whom I wish to teach it."</p>

<p>Now the young lady in question had for some years
been declaring herself very hostile to the idea of marriage;
indeed, she had avowed a pronounced preference
for celibacy. But Jules knew that a certain widower,
not waiting quite so long as decorum required, had overcome
the strange repugnance of this tigress of chastity,
and had even prevailed upon her to name the day. This
declared opponent of marriage was in no hurry to thank
Jules, whose malicious waggery she knew too well; but
every one cried persistently: "The song! Give us the
song, and you can teach it to Elise at your leisure."</p>

<p>"As you will," said Jules. "It is very short, but is
not wanting in spice:</p>

<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"A maiden is a bird<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That seems to love the cage,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Enamored of the nest<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That nursed her tender age;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But leave the window wide<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, presto! she's outside<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And off on eager wing<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To mate and sing."<br /></span>
</div></div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">265</a></span></p>

<p>They chaffed Elise a good deal, who, like all prudes,
took their pleasantries with rather a bad grace, seeing
which, Madame D'Haberville gave the signal, and the
company arose and went into the drawing-room. Elise,
as she was passing Jules, gave him a pinch that nearly
brought the blood.</p>

<p>"Come, my fair one, whose claws are so sharp," exclaimed
Jules, "is this such a caress as you destined for
your future spouse, this which you are now bestowing
on one of your best friends? Happy spouse! May
Heaven keep much joy for him at the last!"</p>

<p>After the coffee and the customary <i>pousse-café</i> the
company went out into the court-yard to dance country
dances and to play fox and geese and my lady's toilet.
Nothing could be more picturesque than this latter
game, played in the open air in a yard studded with
trees. The players took their places each under a tree.
One only remained in the open. Each furnished his
or her contribution to my lady's toilet&mdash;one being her
dress, another her necklace, another her ring, and so
forth. It was the office of one of the players to direct
the game. As soon as he called for one of these articles
the one representing this article was obliged at once to
leave his post, which was promptly taken possession of
by another. Then, as the different articles of my lady's
toilet were called for rapidly, a lively interchange of positions
was set up between the players, the one left out
in the first place striving to capture any post that might
be left for an instant vacant. This merry game was
continued until my lady considered her toilet complete.
Then, on the cry, "My lady wants all her toilet," all the
players change places with alacrity, and the one who
was left out had to pay a forfeit. It is not to be supposed
that this game was conducted without a vast deal
of laughter and clamor and ludicrous mishaps.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">266</a></span></p>

<p>When the ladies were tired the party went into the
house to amuse themselves less vigorously with such
games as "does the company please you," or "hide the
ring," "shepherdess," or "hide and seek," or "hot
cockles," etc. They ended up with a game proposed
by Jules, which was ordinarily productive of much
laughter.</p>

<p>The early Canadians, though redoubtable warriors
on the battle-field, were thorough children in their social
gatherings. Being nearly all kinsfolk or friends of long
standing, many of their games which in these days might
be regarded in the best circles as overfamiliar were
robbed of the objectionable element. The stranger
would have said that they were a lot of brothers and
sisters letting their spirits have free play within the privacy
of the family.</p>

<p>It was not without deliberate purpose that Jules,
who still felt the pinch Elise had given him, proposed a
game by which he hoped to get his revenge. This is
the game: A lady seated in an arm-chair begins by
choosing some one as her daughter. Her eyes are then
blindfolded, and, by merely feeling the faces of the
players, who kneel before her one by one, with their
heads enveloped in a shawl or scarf, she is required to
pick out her daughter. Every time she makes a mistake
she has to pay a forfeit. It is often a man or an old
woman who kneels before her thus disguised, whence
arises many a laughable mistake.</p>

<p>When it came the turn of Elise to take the arm-chair,
she did not fail to select Jules for her daughter, with the
purpose of tormenting him a little during the inspection.
As each person knelt at the feet of the blindfolded lady,
all the others sang in chorus:</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">"Oh, lady, say, is this your daughter?<br />
Oh, lady, say, is this your daughter?<br /></div></div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">267</a></span></p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">In buckles of gold and rings galore,<br />
The watermen bold are at the oar."<br /></div></div>

<p>The blindfolded lady responds in the same fashion:</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">"Oh, yes, it is, it is my daughter, etc."<br /></div></div>

<p>Or else:</p>

<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">"Oh, no, it is not, it is not my daughter;<br />
Oh, no, it is not, it is not my daughter.<br />
In buckles of gold and rings galore,<br />
The watermen bold are at the oar."<br /></div></div>

<p>After having inspected several heads, Elise, hearing
under the shawl the stifled laughter of Jules, imagined
she had grasped her prey. She feels his head. It is
not unlike that of Jules. The face, indeed, seems a
trifle long, but this rascally Jules has so many tricks for
disguising himself! Did he not mystify the company
for a whole evening, having been introduced as an old
aunt just arrived that very day from France? Under
this disguise, did he not have the audacity to kiss all the
pretty women in the room, including Elise herself? The
wretch! Yes, Jules is capable of anything! Under
this impression she pinches an ear. There is a cry of
pain and a low growl, followed by a loud barking. She
snatches the bandage from her eyes, to find herself confronted
with two rows of threatening teeth. It was
Niger. Just as at the house of Farmer Dinmont, of
whom Scott tell us, all the dogs were named Pepper, so
at the D'Haberville mansion all the dogs were called
Niger or Nigra, in memory of their ancestor, whom the
little Jules had named to show his progress in Latin.</p>

<p>Elise at once snatched off her high-heeled shoe, and
made an attack on Jules. The latter held poor Niger
as a shield, and ran from room to room, the girl following
him hotly amid roars of laughter.</p>

<p>Oh, happy time when lightness of heart made wit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">268</a></span>
unnecessary! Oh, happy time when the warmth of welcome
made superfluous the luxury which these ruined
Canadians were learning to do without! The houses,
like the hearts of their owners, seemed able to enlarge
themselves to meet every possible demand of hospitality.
Sleeping-places were improvised upon the slightest
occasion; and when once the ladies were comfortably
provided for the sterner sex found no difficulty in
shifting for themselves. These men, who had passed
half their life in camp during the harshest seasons; who
had journeyed four or five leagues on snow-shoes, resting
by night in holes which they dug in the snow (as
they did when they went to attack the English in Acadia),
these men of iron could do without swan's-down
coverlets to their couches.</p>

<p>The merry-making paused only for sleep, and was renewed
in all its vigor in the morning. As every one then
wore powder, the more skillful would undertake the <i>rôle</i>
of hairdresser, or even of barber. The subject, arrayed
in an ample dressing-gown, seated himself gravely in
a chair. The impromptu hairdresser rarely failed to
heighten the effect of his achievement, either by tracing
with the powder puff an immense pair of whiskers on
those who lacked such adornment, or, in the case of
those who were already provided, by making one side a
great deal longer than the other. The victim frequently
was made aware of his plight only by the peals of
laughter which greeted him on entering the drawing-room.</p>

<p>The party broke up at the end of three days, in spite
of the efforts of M. and Madame D'Haberville to keep
them longer. Archie alone, who had promised to spend
a month with his old friends, kept his word and remained.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">269</a></span></p>

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.<br />
<span class="chapsmall">CONCLUSION.</span></h2>
</div>

<blockquote>
<p>Ainsi passe sur la terre tout ce qui fut bon, vertueux, sensible!
Homme, tu n'es qu'un songe rapide, un rêve douloureux; tu n'existes que
par le malheur; tu n'es quelque chose que par la tristesse de ton âme et
l'eternelle mélancolie de ta pensée!&mdash;<i>Chateaubriand.</i></p></blockquote>

<p>After the departure of the guests the family fell
back into the sweet intimacy of former days. Jules,
whom his native air had restored to health, passed the
greater part of the day in hunting with Archie. The
abundance of game at that season made the pastime
very agreeable. They took supper at seven, they went
to bed at ten, and the evenings seemed all too short
even without the help of cards. Jules, who was ignorant
of what had passed between his sister and Archie,
could not but be struck with his friend's unusual sadness,
of which, however, he failed to guess the cause.
To all questions on the subject he received an evasive
answer. Finally, imagining that he had found the root
of the difficulty, one evening when they were alone together
he put the question directly.</p>

<p>"I have noticed, my brother," said he, "the sadness
which you endeavor to conceal from us. You are unjust
to us, Archie, you do yourself an injustice. You
should not brood over the past. In saving the lives
which would otherwise have been lost in the shipwreck
of the Auguste, you have done my family a service which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">270</a></span>
more than compensates for what took place before. It
is we now who owe you a debt of gratitude which can
never be repaid. It was very natural that, prejudiced
by report and for the moment forgetful of your noble
heart, even such friends as we, imbittered by our losses,
should lend an ear to calumnies against you; but you
know that a simple explanation was enough to re-cement
our old friendship. If my father bore his grudge for a
long time, you know his nature and must make allowance
for it. He feels now all his old affection for you.
Our losses have been in great part repaired, and we live
more tranquilly under the British Government than we
did under the rule of France. Our <i>habitants</i> have followed
the example of Cincinnatus, as Uncle Raoul
would say, and exchanged the musket for the plow-share.
They are opening up new land, and in a few
years this <i>seigneurie</i> will be in a most prosperous condition.
With the help of the little legacy which I lately
received, we shall soon be as rich as we were before the
conquest. Therefore, my dear Archie, drive away this
gloom which is making us all miserable and resume thy
former lightheartedness."</p>

<p>Lochiel was silent for some time, and only answered
after a painful effort.</p>

<p>"Impossible, my brother. The wound is more recent
than you imagine and will bleed all my life, for all
my hopes are destroyed. But let us leave the subject;
for I have already been wounded in my tenderest and
purest emotions, and an unsympathetic word from you
would finish me."</p>

<p>"An unsympathetic word from my lips, do you say,
Archie? What can you mean by that? The friend
whom I have sometimes vexed with my raillery knows
very well what my heart is toward him, and that I was
always ready to crave his pardon. You shake your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">271</a></span>
head sadly! Great heaven, what is the matter? What
is there that you can not confide to your brother, the
friend of your boyhood? Never have I had anything
to conceal from you. My thoughts were as open to you
as your own, and I had imagined that you were as
frank with me. A curse upon whatever has been able
to come between us!"</p>

<p>"Stop, Jules, stop," cried Archie. "However painful
my confidences may be to you, I must tell you all rather
than let you harbor such a cruel suspicion. I am going
to open my heart to you, but on the express condition
that you shall hear me uninterruptedly to the end, as an
impartial judge. Not till to-morrow will we return to
this sore subject. Meanwhile, promise to keep the
secret that I am going to confide to you."</p>

<p>"I give you my word," said Jules, grasping his hand.</p>

<p>Thereupon Lochiel recounted minutely the conversation
that he had had with Blanche. As soon as he
came to an end he lit a candle and withdrew to his own
room.</p>

<p>As for Jules, he stormed within himself all night.
Having studied women only in the <i>salons</i> of St. Germain,
his vigorous common sense could ill appreciate
the sublimity that there was in the sacrifice which his
sister was imposing upon herself. Such sentiments
appeared to him mere romantic and exaggerated nonsense,
or the product of an imagination rendered morbid
by calamity. With his heart set upon an alliance
which would gratify his dearest wishes, he resolved that,
with the consent of Archie, he would have a very serious
conversation with Blanche, from which he felt confident
he would come off victorious. "She loves him,"
thought he, "and therefore my cause is already gained."</p>

<p>Man, with all his apparent superiority, with all his
self-confident vanity, has never yet sounded the depths<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">272</a></span>
of the feminine heart, that inexhaustible treasure-house
of love, devotion, and self-sacrifice. The poets have
sung in every key this being who came all beauty from
the hands of her Creator; but what is all this physical
beauty compared to the spiritual beauty of a noble and
high-souled woman? Indeed, who is more miserable
than man in the face of adversity, when, poor pygmy,
he leans on the fortitude of a woman, who bears the
burden uncomplainingly. It is not surprising then
that Jules, knowing woman only on the surface, expected
an easy triumph over his sister's scruples.</p>

<p>"Come, Blanche," said Jules to his sister, the next
day, after dinner, "there's our Scottish Nimrod setting
out with his gun to get some birds for our supper.
Let's you and I see if we can scale the bluff as nimbly
as we used to."</p>

<p>"With all my heart," answered Blanche. "You
shall see that my Canadian legs have lost none of their
agility."</p>

<p>The brother and sister, assisting themselves by the
projecting rocks, and by the shrubs which clung in the
crevices of the cliff, speedily scaled the difficult path
that led to the summit. After gazing in silence for a
time at the magnificent panorama unrolled before them,
Jules said to his sister:</p>

<p>"I had an object in bringing you here. I wanted
to talk to you on a subject of the greatest importance.
You love our friend Archie; you have loved him for a
long time; yet for reasons that I can not comprehend,
for over-exalted sentiments which warp your judgment,
you are imposing upon yourself an unnatural sacrifice
and preparing for yourself a future of wretchedness. As
for me, if I loved an English girl, and she returned my
affection, I would marry her just as readily as if she
were one of my own countrywomen."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">273</a></span></p>

<p>Blanche's eyes filled with tears. Taking her brother's
hand affectionately, she answered:</p>

<p>"If you were to marry an English girl, my dear Jules,
I should take her to my heart as a sister; but that which
you could do without incurring any reproach, would be
cowardice on my part. Nobly have you paid your
debt to your country. Your voice has nerved your
soldiers through the most terrible conflicts. Twice has
your bleeding body been dragged from our battle-fields,
and three times have you been wounded in Old World
struggles. Yes, my beloved brother, you have fulfilled
all your duty to your country, and you can afford to indulge,
if you wish, the whim of taking a daughter of
England to wife. But I, a weak woman, what have I
done for this enslaved and now silent land, this land
which has rung so often of old with the triumphant
voices of my countrymen? Shall a daughter of the
D'Habervilles be the first to set the example of a double
yoke to the daughters of Canada? It is natural and
even desirable that the French and English in Canada,
having now one country and the same laws, should forget
their ancient hostility and enter into the most intimate
relationships; but I am not the one to set the example.
They would say, as I told Archie, that the
proud Briton, after having vanquished and ruined the
father, had purchased with his gold the poor Canadian
girl! Never, never shall it be said!" And the girl
wept bitterly on her brother's shoulder.</p>

<p>"No one will know of it," she continued, "and
you yourself will never realize the full extent of the
sacrifice I am making, but fear not, Jules, I have the
strength for it. Proud of the sentiments by which I have
been inspired, I shall pass my days serenely in the bosom
of my family. Of this be sure," she continued in a voice
that thrilled with exaltation, "that she who has loved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">274</a></span>
the noble Cameron of Lochiel will never soil her bosom
with another earthly love. You made a mistake in selecting
this spot, Jules, wherein to talk to me on such a
subject&mdash;this spot whence I have so often gazed proudly
on the mansion of my fathers, which is now replaced
by yonder poor dwelling. Let us go down now, and if
you love me never mention this painful subject again."</p>

<p>"Noble soul!" cried Jules, and he held her sobbing
in his arms.</p>

<p>Archie, having lost all hope of wedding Blanche
D'Haberville, set himself to repaying the debt of gratitude
which he owed Dumais. The refusal of Blanche
changed his first intentions and left him more latitude;
for he now resolved upon a life of celibacy. Archie,
whom misfortune had brought to an early maturity, had
studied men and things with great coolness of judgment;
and he had come to the wise conclusion that
marriage is rarely a success unless based on mutual love.
Unlike most young men, Lochiel was genuinely modest.
Though endowed with remarkable beauty, and with all
those qualities which go to captivate women, he nevertheless
remained always simple and unassuming in his
manner. He further believed, with Molière's Toinette,
that the pretense of love often bears a very close resemblance
to the reality. "When I was poor and in exile,"
thought he, "I was loved for my own sake; now that I
am rich, who knows that another woman would love in
me anything but my wealth and my rank, even supposing
that I should succeed in banishing from my heart
my first and only love." Archie decided then that he
would never marry.</p>

<p>The sun was disappearing behind the Laurentian
hills, when Lochiel arrived at the farm of Dumais. The
order and prosperity which reigned there gave him an
agreeable surprise. The good wife, busy in her dairy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">275</a></span>
where a fat servant girl was helping her, came forward
to meet him without recognizing him, and invited him
to enter the house.</p>

<p>"This is the house of Sergeant Dumais, I believe,"
said Archie.</p>

<p>"Yes, sir, and I am his wife. My husband should
be back presently from the fields with a load of grain.
I will send one of the children to hurry him up."</p>

<p>"There is no hurry, madam. I have called to give
you news of a certain Mr. Archie de Lochiel, whom you
once knew. Perhaps you have forgotten him."</p>

<p>Madame Dumais came nearer. After studying his
face intently for some moments, she said:</p>

<p>"There is certainly a resemblance. Doubtless you
are one of his kinsfolk. Forget Mr. Archie! He could
never think us capable of such ingratitude. Do you
not know, then, that he faced almost certain death to
save my husband's life, and that we pray to God every
day that he will bless our benefactor? Forget Mr.
Archie! You grieve me, sir."</p>

<p>Lochiel was much moved. Lifting into his lap the
little seven-year-old Louise, Dumais's youngest child,
he said to her:</p>

<p>"And you, my little one, do you know Mr. Archie?"</p>

<p>"I have never seen him," said the child, "but we
pray for him every day."</p>

<p>"What do you pray?" asked Archie.</p>

<p>"O God, bless Mr. Archie, who saved papa's life, as
long as he lives; and, when he dies, take him to your
holy paradise."</p>

<p>Lochiel continued to chat with Madame Dumais till
the latter heard her husband's voice at the barn. She
ran to tell him that there was a stranger in the house
with news from Mr. Archie. Dumais was preparing to
pitch off his load, but he threw down the fork and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">276</a></span>
rushed into the house. It was by this time too dark for
him to make out the stranger's face.</p>

<p>"You are indeed welcome," said he, "coming with
news from one so dear to us."</p>

<p>"You are&mdash;Sergeant Dumais?" inquired Archie.</p>

<p>"You are Mr. Archie!" cried Dumais, clasping him
in his arms. "Do you think I could forget the voice
that cried to me 'Courage!' when I was hanging on the
brink of the abyss&mdash;the voice I heard so often in my
sickness?"</p>

<p>Toward the end of the evening Archie said:</p>

<p>"My dear Dumais, I am come to ask a great
favor."</p>

<p>"A favor!" exclaimed Dumais. "Could I, a poor
farmer, be so fortunate as to do you a favor? It would
be the happiest day of my life."</p>

<p>"Well, Dumais, it depends upon you to restore me
to health. Though I may not look it, I am sick, more
sick than you could imagine."</p>

<p>"Indeed," said Dumais, "you are pale, and sadder
than of old. Good heaven! What is the matter?"</p>

<p>"Have you ever heard of a malady to which the
English are very subject, and which they call the spleen,
or blue devils?"</p>

<p>"No," said Dumais. "I have known several of your
English who, if I may say it without offense, seemed to
have the devil in them; but I had imagined that these
devils were of a darker hue."</p>

<p>Archie began to laugh.</p>

<p>"What we, my dear Dumais, call the blue devils is
known among you Canadians as '<i>peine d'esprit</i>.'"</p>

<p>"I understand now," said Dumais, "but what astonishes
me is that a man like you, with everything heart
could wish, should be amusing himself with blue devils."</p>

<p>"My dear Dumais," replied Archie, "I might answer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">277</a></span>
that every one in the world has his sorrows, however
fortunate he may seem; but it is enough now to say that
the malady is upon me, and that I count upon you to
help me to a cure."</p>

<p>"Command me, Mr. Archie; for I am at your service
day and night."</p>

<p>"I have tried everything," continued Archie. "I
have tried study, I have tried literary work. I am better
in the day-time, but my nights are usually sleepless,
and when I do sleep, I wake up as miserable as ever.
I have concluded that nothing but hard manual labor
can cure me. After toiling all day, I imagine that I shall
win such a slumber as has long been denied me."</p>

<p>"Very true," said Dumais. "When a man has labored
all day with his hands, I defy him to suffer from
sleeplessness at night. But how shall I have the pleasure
of helping you?"</p>

<p>"I expect you to cure me, my dear Dumais. But
listen while I explain my plans. I am now rich, and
since Providence has given me riches which I had never
expected, I should employ a portion of them in doing
good. In this parish and the neighborhood there is an
immense deal of land unoccupied, either for sale or to
be granted. My plan is to take up a large acreage of
such lands, and not only superintend the clearing, but
work at it myself. You know that I have good arms;
and I will do as much as any of the rest."</p>

<p>"I know it," said Dumais.</p>

<p>"There are many poor fellows," continued Archie,
"who will be glad enough to get work at such good
wages as I shall give. You understand, Dumais, that I
shall have to have some one to help me. Moreover,
what would I do in the evening and during bad weather,
without a friend to keep me company? It is then
that my melancholy would kill me."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">278</a></span></p>

<p>"Let us set out to-morrow," cried Dumais, "and
visit the best lots, which, for that matter, I already
know pretty well."</p>

<p>"Thank you," said Archie, grasping his hand; "but
who will take care of your farm in your frequent
absences?"</p>

<p>"Don't be anxious on that score, sir. My wife
could manage very well alone, even without her brother,
an old bachelor, who lives with us. My farm has never
suffered much from my absence. I have always preferred
the musket to the plow. My wife scolds me
occasionally on this subject; but we are none the worse
friends for that."</p>

<p>"Do you know," said Archie, "that yonder by the
edge of the river, near that maple grove, is the most
charming situation for a house. Yours is old. We
will build one large enough for us all. I will build it,
on condition that I have the right to occupy half of it
during my life; and on my death all will belong to you.
I have resolved to remain a bachelor."</p>

<p>"Men like you," said Dumais, "are altogether too
scarce. It would be wrong to let the breed die out.
But I begin to understand that you are thinking less
about yourself than about me and my family, and that
you are seeking to make us rich."</p>

<p>"Let us speak frankly," answered Archie. "I have
no true friends in the world but the D'Haberville family
and yours."</p>

<p>"Thank you, sir," said Dumais, "for classing us poor
farmers with that illustrious family."</p>

<p>"I only consider the virtues and good qualities of
men," answered Lochiel. "To be sure, I love and respect
birth and breeding, which does not prevent me from loving
and respecting all men who are worthy of such sentiments.
I want to give you a fourth part of my fortune."</p>


<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">279</a></span></p>

<p>"Oh, sir!" cried Dumais.</p>

<p>"Listen a moment, my friend," continued Lochiel.
"When I told you that I was suffering from what you
call '<i>peine d'esprit</i>,' I was telling the literal truth.
I have found the remedy for this trouble. It lies in
plenty of hard work and in helping my friends. I am
going to give you during my life-time a quarter of my
fortune. Look out for yourself, Dumais! I am obstinate,
like all Scotchmen. If you trifle with me, instead
of a quarter, I am as likely as not to give you a half.
But, to speak seriously, my dear Dumais, you would be
doing me a very ill turn, indeed, if you should refuse
me."</p>

<p>"If this is the case, sir," said Dumais, with tears in
his eyes, "I accept your gift."</p>

<p>Let us leave Lochiel busying himself in heaping
benefits on Dumais, and let us return to our other
friends.</p>

<p>"The good gentleman," now almost a hundred years
old, lived but a year after Jules's return. He died surrounded
by his friends, having been most lovingly
nursed by Blanche and Jules throughout the month of
his last illness. A little while before his death he begged
Jules to open his bed-room window, and, casting a feeble
glance toward the stream which rolled peacefully past
his door, he murmured:</p>

<p>"There it is, my friend; there's the walnut tree in
whose shadow I told you the story of my misfortunes;
it was there I counseled you from my own experience.
I die content, for I see that you have profited by my
words. When I am gone, take this little candlestick.
It will remind you of the vigils it has witnessed and of
the advice which I have given you.</p>

<p>"As for you, my dear and faithful André," exclaimed
M. d'Egmont, "it grieves me to leave you alone in this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">280</a></span>
world where you have shared my sorrows. You have
promised me to pass the rest of your days with the
D'Habervilles, who will care for your old age tenderly.
You know that after your death the poor are to be our
heirs."</p>

<p>"My dear master," said Franc&oelig;ur, sobbing, "the
poor will not have long to wait for their inheritance."</p>

<p>Having bid farewell to all his friends, "the good gentleman"
asked the priest to say the prayers for the dying.
Just at the words, "<i>Partez âme Chrétienne, au nom du
Dieu tout-puissant qui vous a créé</i>," he breathed his last.
Sterne would have said:</p>

<p>"The recording angel of the court of heaven shed a
tear upon the follies of his youth, and blotted them out
forever." The angels are more compassionate than
men, who neither forget nor forgive the faults of
others!</p>

<p>André Franc&oelig;ur was struck with paralysis on the
day of his master's burial, and survived him but three
weeks.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>When Jules had said to his sister: "If I loved an
English girl and she would have me, I would marry her
as readily as one of my own countrywomen," Blanche
had been far from suspecting her brother's real intentions.
The truth was that Jules, on his voyage across
the Atlantic, had made the acquaintance of a young
English girl of great beauty. A second Saint-Preux,
Jules had given her lessons in something more than
French grammar during a passage that lasted two months.
He had shown excellent taste. The young girl, in addition
to her beauty, possessed the qualities to inspire a
true passion.</p>

<p>All obstacles being at length overcome, and the consent
of both families obtained, in the following year<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">281</a></span>
Jules married the fair daughter of Albion, who soon won
the hearts of all about her.</p>

<p>Uncle Raoul, always bitter against the English on
account of the leg which he had lost in <ins title="Transcriber's note: original reads 'Acadie'">Acadia</ins>, but too
well bred to fail in the proprieties, used at first to shut
himself up whenever he wanted to swear comfortably at
the compatriots of his lovely niece; but by the end of a
month she had entirely captivated him, whereupon he
suddenly suppressed his oaths, to the great benefit of his
soul and of the pious ears which he had scandalized.</p>

<p>"That rascal of a Jules," said Uncle Raoul, "showed
very good taste in wedding this young English woman.
His Holiness the Pope of old was quite right when he
said that these young islanders would be angels if only
they were Christians; <i>non angli, sed angeli fuissent, si
essent Christiani</i>."</p>

<p>It was another thing when the dear uncle, trotting a
little nephew on one knee and a little niece on the other,
used to sing them the songs of the Canadian <i>voyageurs</i>.
How proud he was when their mother used to cry:</p>

<p>"For pity sake, come to my help, dear uncle, for the
little demons won't go to sleep without you."</p>

<p>Uncle Raoul had charged himself with the military
education of his nephew. Therefore, before he was four
years old, this pygmy warrior, armed with a little wooden
gun, might be seen making furious attacks against the
ample stomach of his instructor, who was obliged to defend
with his cane the part assaulted.</p>

<p>"The little scamp," said the chevalier recovering
himself, "is going to have the dashing courage of the
D'Habervilles, with the persistence and independence
of the proud islanders from whom he is descended
through his mother."</p>

<p>José had at first shown himself rather cool toward
his young mistress, but he ended by becoming warmly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">282</a></span>
attached to her. She had speedily found the weak point
in his armor of reserve. José, like his late father,
dearly loved his glass, which, however, produced very
little effect upon his hard head. It was as if one should
pour the liquor upon the head of the weather-cock, and
expect to confuse the judgment of that venerable but
volatile bird. His young mistress was forever offering
José a drop of brandy to warm him or a glass of wine to
refresh him; till José ended by declaring that if the
Englishmen were somewhat uncivil, their countrywomen
by no means resembled them in that regard.</p>

<p>With their minds at ease as to the future of their
children, M. and Madame D'Haberville lived happily to
extreme old age. The captain's last words to his son
were:</p>

<p>"Serve your new sovereign as faithfully as I have
served the King of France; and may God bless you,
my dear son, for the comfort that you have been to
me!"</p>

<p>Uncle Raoul, dying three years before his brother,
bid farewell to life with but one regret. He would have
liked to see his little nephew fairly launched on the
career of arms, the only career he considered quite
worthy of a D'Haberville. Having perceived, however,
that the child made great progress in his studies, he
comforted himself with the thought that, if not a soldier,
his nephew might turn out a <i>savant</i> like himself and
keep the torch of learning lighted in the family.</p>

<p>José, who had a constitution of iron and sinews of
steel, who had never had an hour of sickness, regarded
death as a sort of hypothetical event. One of his friends
said to him one day after his master's death:</p>

<p>"Do you know, José, you must be at least eighty
years old, and one would scarcely take you to be fifty."</p>

<p>José leaned upon his hip to show his steadiness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">283</a></span>
blew through his pipe to expel a bit of ashes, fumbled
in his pocket with his one remaining hand till he found
his tobacco and his flint and steel, and at length replied
with great deliberation.</p>

<p>"As you know, I am the foster-brother of our late
captain; I was brought up in his house; I have followed
him in every campaign that he has made; I have trained
his two children; I have begun, do you see, upon a new
charge, the care of his grandchildren. Very well, then!
As long as a D'Haberville needs my services, I don't
propose to leave."</p>

<p>"Do you think, then, that you will live as long as the
late Maqueue-salé [Methuselah]?" asked the neighbor.</p>

<p>"Longer still, if need be," replied José.</p>

<p>Then, having taken from his pocket everything
which he needed, he filled his pipe, put a bit of lighted
tinder on the bowl, and applied himself to smoking while
he regarded his friend with the air of a man convinced
of the truth of everything which he has said.</p>

<p>José kept his word for a dozen years; but it was in
vain that he endeavored to strengthen himself against
old age by occupying himself with his usual tasks, despite
the remonstrances of his masters, and at last he
was forced to keep the house. All the family were anxious
about him.</p>

<p>"What is the matter, my dear José?" said Jules.</p>

<p>"Bah! only laziness," replied José, "or perhaps my
rheumatics."</p>

<p>But José had never had an attack of that malady.
This was only an excuse.</p>

<p>"Give the good old fellow, ma'am, his morning glass,
it will revive him," said Archie.</p>

<p>"I am going to bring you a little glass of excellent
brandy," said Madame Jules.</p>

<p>"Not just now," replied José, " I always have some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">284</a></span>
in my trunk, but this morning it doesn't appeal to
me."</p>

<p>They began to be seriously alarmed; this was a bad
symptom.</p>

<p>"Then I am going to make you a cup of tea," said
Madame Jules, "and you will feel better."</p>

<p>"My English wife," said Jules, "thinks tea a remedy
for all ills."</p>

<p>José drank the tea, and declared that it was a fine
medicine and that he felt better, but this did not prevent
the faithful servant from taking to his bed that very
evening never to leave it alive.</p>

<p>When the brave fellow knew that his end was drawing
near, he said to Jules, who watched with him through
the night:</p>

<p>"I have prayed the good God to prolong my life to
your childrens' next holidays, so that I might see them
once more before I die, but I shall not have that consolation."</p>

<p>"You shall see them to-morrow, my dear José."</p>

<p>An hour later Lochiel was on the way to Quebec,
and on the next evening all those who were the dearest
in the world to that faithful and affectionate servant
were gathered around his death-bed. After talking
with them for some time and bidding them a most tender
farewell, he summoned all his strength in order to
sit up in bed, and when Jules approached to support
him, a burning tear fell on his hand. After this last
effort of that strong nature, he who had shared the good
and the bad fortune of the D'Habervilles fell back and
ceased to breathe.</p>

<p>"Let us pray for the soul of one of the best men that
I have known," said Archie, closing his eyes.</p>

<p>Jules and Blanche, in spite of remonstrances, would
not resign to any one the task of watching beside their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">285</a></span>
old friend during the three days that his body remained
at the manor house.</p>

<p>"If one of our family had died," they said, "Jules
would not have left him to another's care."</p>

<p>One day when Archie, in the course of one of his
frequent visits to the D'Habervilles, was walking with
Jules in front of the manor house, he saw approaching
on foot an old man, decently clad, carrying a sealskin
bag on his shoulders.</p>

<p>"Who is that man?" he asked.</p>

<p>"Ah," said Jules, "that is our friend, M. D&mdash;&mdash;, carrying
his office on his back."</p>

<p>"What! His office?" said Archie.</p>

<p>"Certainly. He is an itinerant notary. Every three
months he travels through certain districts, drawing up
new deeds and finishing up copies of the rough drafts
which he always carries with him in order that he may
not be taken unawares. He is an excellent and very
amiable man, French by birth, and very intelligent.
On coming to Canada he began with a small trade in
pictures which proved unprofitable, and then, remembering
that he had formerly studied for two years with
an advocate in France, he boldly presented himself before
the judges, and passed an examination, which, if
not brilliant, was at least satisfactory enough for his new
country, and then returned home in triumph with a
notary's commission in his pocket. I assure you that
every one gets on well with his deeds, which are drawn
with a most scrupulous honesty that supplies the place
of the diction, purer but often tarnished by bad faith, of
more learned notaries."</p>

<p>"Your nomadic notary," replied Archie, smiling,
"arrives opportunely. I have work for him."</p>

<p>In fact, Lochiel, who was already well advanced in
the task of clearing which he was so actively engaged<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">286</a></span>
upon for the benefit of his friend Dumais, made over to
him in due form all his real estate, reserving only for
himself during his life-time the half of the new and
spacious house which he had built.</p>

<p>The visits of Archie to the manor house became
more frequent as he advanced in age, and he ended by
establishing himself there altogether. Blanche was no
longer in his eyes anything more than an adopted sister;
and the sweet name of brother, which Blanche had given
him, purified the remnant of passion which yet clung to
the heart of this noble woman.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>The author has become so attached to the chief characters
in this veracious history that it costs him a pang
to banish them from the scene. He fears also to grieve
those of his readers who may share this attachment should
he kill them all off with one stroke of the pen. Time
will do the fatal work without the author's assistance.</p>

<p>It is eleven o'clock in the evening, toward the end
of October. The D'Haberville family are gathered in
a little parlor sufficiently illuminated, without the help
of the candles, by the flame from an armful of dry cedar
chips which are blazing in the great chimney. Lochiel,
now nearly sixty years of age, is playing a game of
draughts with Blanche. Jules, seated between his wife
and daughter, near the fire, is teasing them both without
altogether neglecting the players.</p>

<p>Young Archie D'Haberville, only son of Jules and
godson of Lochiel, is in a brown study. He is following
the fantastic figures which his imagination has created
in the flames now dying slowly on the hearth.</p>

<p>"What are you thinking about, my grave philosopher?"
said his father.</p>

<p>"I have been watching with intense interest," answered
the young man, "a little group of men, women,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">287</a></span>
and children who have been walking, dancing, rising,
falling, and who have at length all vanished."</p>

<p>The cedar fire had just died out.</p>

<p>"You are the true son of your mother, a godson
worthy of your godfather," said Jules D'Haberville, rising
to bid good-night.</p>

<p>Like the fantastic figures which young D'Haberville
was watching in the flames, my characters, dear reader,
have been moving for some time before your eyes, to
vanish suddenly, perhaps forever, with him who set them
in motion.</p>

<p>Farewell, then, dear reader, before my hand, growing
more cold than our Canadian winters, refuses any longer
to trace my thoughts.</p>




<p class="center">THE END.</p>




<p class="break-before"><b>L. C. Page and Company's</b><br />
<b>Announcement List</b><br />
<b>of New Fiction</b></p>

<p><b>The Flight of Georgiana</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p><span class="smcap">A Romance of the Days of the Young Pretender.</span> By
<span class="smcap">Robert Neilson Stephens</span>, author of "The Bright Face of
Danger," "An Enemy to the King," "The Mystery of
Murray Davenport," etc.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>Mr. Stephens's novels all bear the hall-mark of success,
for his men are always live, his women are always worthy of
their cavaliers, and his adventures are of the sort to stir the
most sluggish blood without overstepping the bounds of good
taste.</p>

<p>The theme of the new novel is one which will give Mr.
Stephens splendid scope for all the powers at his command.
The career of "Bonnie Prince Charlie" was full of romance,
intrigue, and adventure; his life was a series of episodes to
delight the soul of a reader of fiction, and Mr. Stephens is
to be congratulated for his selection of such a promising
subject.</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>Mrs. Jim and Mrs. Jimmie</b></p>

<p>By <span class="smcap">Stephen Conrad</span>, author of "The Second Mrs. Jim."</p>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>This new book is in a sense a sequel to "The Second Mrs.
Jim," since it gives further glimpses of that delightful step-mother
and her philosophy. This time, however, she divides
the field with "Mrs. Jimmie," who is quite as attractive in
her different way. The book has more plot than the former
volume, a little less philosophy perhaps, but just as much
wholesome fun. In many ways it is a stronger book, and
will therefore take an even firmer hold on the public.</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>The Story of Red Fox</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p>Told by <span class="smcap">Charles G. D. Roberts</span>, author of "The Watchers
of the Trails," "The Kindred of the Wild," "Barbara
Ladd," etc.</p>

<p>Library 12mo, cloth decorative, with fifty illustrations and
cover design by Charles Livingston Bull</p>

<p>
$2.00<br />
</p></blockquote>

<p>Mr. Roberts's reputation as a scientifically accurate writer,
whose literary skill transforms his animal stories into masterpieces,
stands unrivalled in his particular field.</p>

<p>This is his first long animal story, and his romance of Red
Fox, from babyhood to patriarchal old age, makes reading
more fascinating than any work of fiction. In his hands Red
Fox becomes a personality so strong that one entirely forgets
he is an animal, and his haps and mishaps grip you as do
those of a person.</p>

<p>Mr. Bull, as usual, fits his pictures to the text as hand to
glove, and the ensemble becomes a book as near perfection
as it is possible to attain.</p>


<p class="break-before">Return</p>

<blockquote>


<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="smcap">A Story of the Sea Islands in 1739.</span> By <span class="smcap">Alice MacGowan</span>
and <span class="smcap">Grace MacGowan Cooke</span>, authors of "The
Last Word," etc. With six illustrations by C. D. Williams.
Library 12mo, cloth</p>

<p>
$1.50<br />
</p></blockquote>

<p>A new romance, undoubtedly the best work yet done by
Miss MacGowan and Mrs. Cooke. The heroine of "Return,"
Diana Chaters, is the belle of the Colonial city of Charles
Town, S. C., in the early eighteenth century, and the hero
is a young Virginian of the historical family of Marshall.
The youth, beauty, and wealth of the fashionable world, which
first form the environment of the romance, are pictured in
sharp contrast to the rude and exciting life of the frontier
settlements in the Georgia Colony, and the authors have
missed no opportunities for telling characterizations. But
"Return" is, above all, a <i>love-story</i>.</p>

<p>We quote the opinion of Prof. Charles G. D. Roberts, who
has read the advance sheets: "It seems to me a story of
quite unusual strength and interest, full of vitality and
crowded with telling characters. I greatly like the authors'
firm, bold handling of their subject."</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>Lady Penelope</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p>By <span class="smcap">Morley Roberts</span>, author of "Rachel Marr," "The Promotion
of the Admiral," etc. With nine illustrations by
Arthur W. Brown.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>Mr. Roberts certainly has versatility, since this book has
not a single point of similarity with either "Rachel Marr"
or his well-known sea stories. Its setting is the English so-called
"upper crust" of the present day. Lady Penelope is
quite the most up-to-date young lady imaginable and equally
charming. As might be expected from such a heroine, her
<i>automobiling</i> plays an important part in the development
of the plot. Lady Penelope has a large number of suitors,
and her method of choosing her husband is original and provocative
of delightful situations and mirthful incidents.</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>The Winged Helmet</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p>By <span class="smcap">Harold Steele MacKaye</span>, author of "The Panchronicon,"
etc. With six illustrations by H. C. Edwards.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>When an author has an original theme on which to build
his story, ability in construction of unusual situations, skill
in novel characterization, and a good literary style, there can
be no doubt but that his work is worth reading. "The
Winged Helmet" is of this description.</p>

<p>The author gives in this novel a convincing picture of life
in the early sixteenth century, and the reader will be delighted
with its originality of treatment, freshness of plot,
and unexpected climaxes.</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>A Captain of Men</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p>
By <span class="smcap">E. Anson More</span>.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth, illustrated      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>A tale of Tyre and those merchant princes whose discovery
of the value of tin brought untold riches into the country
and afforded adventures without number to those daring
seekers for the mines. Merodach, the Assyrian, Tanith, the
daughter of the richest merchant of Tyre, Miriam, her Hebrew
slave, and the dwarf Hiram, who was the greatest artist
of his day, are a quartette of characters hard to surpass in
individuality. It has been said that the powerful order of
Free Masons first had its origin in the meetings which were
held at Hiram's studio in Tyre, where gathered together the
greatest spirits of that age and place.</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>The Paradise of the Wild Apple</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p>By <span class="smcap">Richard LeGallienne</span>, author of "Old Love Stories
Retold," "The Quest of the Golden Girl," etc.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth decorative      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>The theme of Mr. LeGallienne's new romance deals with
the instinct of wildness in human nature,&mdash;the wander spirit
and impatience of tame domesticity, the preference for wild
flowers and fruits, and the glee in summer storms and elemental
frolics. A wild apple-tree, high up in a rocky meadow,
is symbolic of all this, and Mr. LeGallienne works out in
a fashion at once imaginative and serious the romance of a
young man well placed from the view of worldly goods and
estate, who suddenly hungers for the "wild apples" of his
youth. The theme has limitless possibilities, and Mr. LeGallienne
is artist enough to make adequate use of them.</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>The Grapple</b></p>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth decorative      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>This story of a strike in the coal mines of Pennsylvania
gives both sides of the question,&mdash;the Union and its methods,
and the non-Union workers and their loyal adherents, with
a final typical clash at the end. The question is an absorbing
one, and it is handled fearlessly.</p>

<p>For the present at least "The Grapple" will be issued
anonymously.</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>Brothers of Peril</b></p>

<blockquote>


<p>By <span class="smcap">Theodore Roberts</span>, author of "Hemming the Adventurer."</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>"Brothers of Peril" has an unusual plot, dealing with a
now extinct race, the Beothic Indians of the sixteenth century,
who were the original inhabitants of Newfoundland
when that island was merely a fishing-station for the cod-seeking
fleets of the old world.</p>

<p>The story tells of the adventures of a young English cavalier,
who, left behind by the fleet, finds another Englishman,
with his daughter and servants, who is hiding from
the law. A French adventurer and pirate, who is an unwelcome
suitor for the daughter, plays an important part. Encounters
between the Indians and the small colony of white
men on the shore, and perilous adventures at sea with a shipload
of pirates led by the French buccaneer, make a story of
breathless interest.</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>The Black Barque</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p>By <span class="smcap">T. Jenkins Hains</span>, author of "The Wind Jammers,"
"The Strife of the Sea," etc. With five illustrations by
W. Herbert Dunton.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>According to a high naval authority who has seen the advance
sheets, this is one of the best sea stories ever offered
to the public. "The Black Barque" is a story of slavery and
piracy upon the high seas about 1815, and is written with a
thorough knowledge of deep-water sailing. This, Captain
Hains's first long sea story, realistically pictures a series of
stirring scenes at the period of the destruction of the exciting
but nefarious traffic in slaves, in the form of a narrative
by a young American lieutenant, who, by force of circumstances,
finds himself the gunner of "The Black Barque."</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>Cameron of Lochiel</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p>Translated from the French of <span class="smcap">Philippe Aubert de Gaspé</span>
by <span class="smcap">Prof. Charles G. D. Roberts</span>.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth decorative      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>The publishers are gratified to announce a new edition of
a book by this famous author, who may be called the Walter
Scott of Canada. This interesting and valuable romance is
fortunate in having for its translator Professor Roberts, who
has caught perfectly the spirit of the original. The French
edition first appeared under the title of "Les Anciens Canadiens"
in 1862, and was later translated and appeared in an
American edition now out of print.</p>

<p>Patriotism, devotion to the French-Canadian nationality,
a just pride of race, and a loving memory for his people's
romantic and heroic past, are the dominant chords struck
by the author throughout the story.</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>Castel del Monte</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p>
By <span class="smcap">Nathan Gallizier</span>. Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>A powerful romance of the fall of the Hohenstaufen dynasty
in Italy, and the overthrow of Manfred by Charles of
Anjou, the champion of Pope Clement IV. The Middle Ages
are noted for the weird mysticism and the deep fatalism
characteristic of a people believing in signs and portents
and the firm hand of fate. Mr. Gallizier has brought out
these characteristics in a marked degree.</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>Slaves of Success</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p>By <span class="smcap">Elliot Flower</span>, author of "The Spoilsmen," etc. With
twenty illustrations by different artists.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>Another striking book by Mr. Flower, whose work is already
so well known, both through his long stories and his
contributions to <i>Collier's</i>, the <i>Saturday Evening Post</i>, etc.
Like his first success, "The Spoilsmen," it deals with politics,
but in the broader field of state and national instead of
municipal. The book has recently appeared in condensed form
as a serial in <i>Collier's Magazine</i>, where it attracted wide-spread
attention, and the announcement of its appearance
in book form will be welcomed by Mr. Flower's rapidly increasing
audience. The successful delineation of characters
like John Wade, Ben Carroll, Azro Craig, and Allen Sidway
throws new strong lights on the inside workings of American
business and political "graft."</p>


<p class="break-before"><b>Silver Bells</b></p>

<blockquote>

<p>By <span class="smcap">Col. Andrew C. P. Haggard</span>, author of "Hannibal's
Daughter," "Louis XIV. in Court and Camp," etc. With
cover design and frontispiece by Charles Livingston Bull.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>Under the thin veneer of conventionality and custom lurks
in many hearts the primeval instinct to throw civilization
to the winds and hark back to the ways of the savages in the
wilderness, and it often requires but a mental crisis or an
emotional upheaval to break through the coating. Geoffrey
Digby was such an one, who left home and kindred to seek
happiness among the Indians of Canada, in the vast woods
which always hold an undefinable mystery and fascination.
He gained renown as a mighty hunter, and the tale of his
life there, and the romance which awaited him, will be heartily
enjoyed by all who like a good love-story with plenty of
action not of the "stock" order. "Silver Bells," the Indian
girl, is a perfect "child of nature."</p>




<p class="break-before"><b>Selections from</b><br />
<b>L. C. Page and Company's</b><br />
<b>List of Fiction</b></p>

<p class="center">WORKS OF
ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS</p>


<blockquote>
<p><b>Captain Ravenshaw</b>; <span class="smcap">Or, The Maid of
Cheapside</span>. (40th thousand.) A romance of Elizabethan
London. Illustrations by Howard Pyle and other artists.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50
</p>

<p>Not since the absorbing adventures of D'Artagnan have we
had anything so good in the blended vein of romance and
comedy. The beggar student, the rich goldsmith, the roisterer
and the rake, the fop and the maid, are all here: foremost
among them Captain Ravenshaw himself, soldier of fortune
and adventurer, who, after escapades of binding interest,
finally wins a way to fame and to matrimony.</p>


<blockquote>

<p><b>Philip Winwood.</b> (70th thousand.) A Sketch of
the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of
Independence, embracing events that occurred between and
during the years 1763 and 1785 in New York and London.
Written by his Enemy in War, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant
in the Loyalist Forces. Presented anew by <span class="smcap">Robert Neilson
Stephens</span>. Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"One of the most stirring and remarkable romances that have
been published in a long while, and its episodes, incidents, and
actions are as interesting and agreeable as they are vivid and
dramatic."&mdash;<i>Boston Times.</i></p></blockquote>


<blockquote>

<p><b>The Mystery of Murray Davenport.</b> (30th
thousand.) By <span class="smcap">Robert Neilson Stephens</span>, author of
"An Enemy to the King," "Philip Winwood," etc.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth, with six full-page illustrations by H. C.<br />
Edwards      $1.50<br />
</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"This is easily the best thing that Mr. Stephens has yet done.
Those familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure of
this praise, which is generous."&mdash;<i>Buffalo News.</i></p>

<p>"Mr. Stephens won a host of friends through his earlier volumes,
but we think he will do still better work in his new field if the
present volume is a criterion."&mdash;<i>N. Y. Com. Advertiser.</i></p></blockquote>


<blockquote>

<p><b>An Enemy to the King.</b> (60th thousand.) From
the "Recently Discovered Memoirs of the Sieur de la
Tournoire." Illustrated by H. De M. Young.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing
the adventures of a young French nobleman at the Court of
Henry III., and on the field with Henry of Navarre.</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"A stirring tale."&mdash;<i>Detroit Free Press.</i></p>

<p>"A royally strong piece of fiction."&mdash;<i>Boston Ideas.</i></p>

<p>"Interesting from the first to the last page."&mdash;<i>Brooklyn Eagle.</i></p>

<p>"Brilliant as a play; it is equally brilliant as a romantic novel."&mdash;<i>Philadelphia
Press.</i></p></blockquote>


<blockquote>

<p><b>The Continental Dragoon</b>: <span class="smcap">A Romance of
Philipse Manor House in 1778</span>. (43d thousand.) Illustrated
by H. C. Edwards.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>A stirring romance of the Revolution, the scene being laid
in and around the old Philipse Manor House, near Yonkers,
which at the time of the story was the central point of the so-called
"neutral territory" between the two armies.</p>


<blockquote>

<p><b>The Road to Paris</b>: <span class="smcap">A Story of Adventure</span>.
(25th thousand.) Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>An historical romance of the 18th century, being an account
of the life of an American gentleman adventurer of Jacobite
ancestry, whose family early settled in the colony of Pennsylvania.</p>


<blockquote>

<p><b>A Gentleman Player:</b> <span class="smcap">His Adventures on a
Secret Mission for Queen Elizabeth</span>. (38th thousand.)
Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>"A Gentleman Player" is a romance of the Elizabethan
period. It relates the story of a young gentleman who, in the
reign of Elizabeth, falls so low in his fortune that he joins
Shakespeare's company of players, and becomes a friend and
protégé of the great poet.</p>




<p>WORKS OF CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS</p>


<blockquote>

<p><b>Barbara Ladd.</b> With four illustrations by Frank
Verbeck.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, gilt top      $1.50<br />
</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"From the opening chapter to the final page Mr. Roberts lures
us on by his rapt devotion to the changing aspects of Nature and
by his keen and sympathetic analysis of human character."&mdash;<i>Boston
Transcript.</i></p></blockquote>


<blockquote>

<p><b>The Kindred of the Wild.</b> <span class="smcap">A Book of Animal
Life.</span> With fifty-one full-page plates and many decorations
from drawings by Charles Livingston Bull.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Small quarto, decorative cover      $2.00<br />
</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"Professor Roberts has caught wonderfully the elusive individualities
of which he writes. His animal stories are marvels of sympathetic
science and literary exactness. Bound with the superb
illustrations by Charles Livingston Bull, they make a volume which
charms, entertains, and informs."&mdash;<i>New York World.</i></p>

<p>" ... Is in many ways the most brilliant collection of animal
stories that has appeared ... well named and well done."&mdash;<i>John
Burroughs.</i></p></blockquote>


<blockquote>

<p><b>The Forge in the Forest.</b> Being the Narrative of
the Acadian Ranger, Jean de Mer, Seigneur de Briart, and
how he crossed the Black Abbé, and of his Adventures in a
Strange Fellowship. Illustrated by Henry Sandham, R.C.A.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth, gilt top      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>A romance of the convulsive period of the struggle between
the French and English for the possession of North America.
The story is one of pure love and heroic adventure, and
deals with that fiery fringe of conflict that waved between
Nova Scotia and New England. The Expulsion of the Acadians
is foreshadowed in these brilliant pages, and the part of
the "Black Abbé's" intrigues in precipitating that catastrophe
is shown.</p>


<blockquote>

<p><b>The Heart of the Ancient Wood.</b> With
six illustrations by James L. Weston.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, decorative cover      $1.50<br />
</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"One of the most fascinating novels of recent days."&mdash;<i>Boston
Journal.</i></p>

<p>"A classic twentieth-century romance."&mdash;<i>New York Commercial
Advertiser.</i></p></blockquote>


<blockquote>

<p><b>A Sister to Evangeline.</b> Being the Story of
Yvonne de Lamourie, and how she went into Exile with the
Villagers of Grand Pré.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>This is a romance of the great expulsion of the Acadians,
which Longfellow first immortalized in "Evangeline." Swift
action, fresh atmosphere, wholesome purity, deep passion,
searching analysis, characterize this strong novel.</p>


<p>By the Marshes of Minas.</p>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>This is a volume of romance, of love and adventure in that
picturesque period when Nova Scotia was passing from the
French to the English régime. Each tale is independent of
the others, but the scenes are similar, and in several of them the
evil "Black Abbé," well known from the author's previous
novels, again appears with his savages at his heels&mdash;but to
be thwarted always by woman's wit or soldier's courage.</p>


<blockquote>

<p><b>Earth's Enigmas.</b> A new edition, with the addition
of three new stories, and ten illustrations by Charles
Livingston Bull.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth, uncut edges      $1.50<br />
</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"Throughout the volume runs that subtle questioning of the
cruel, predatory side of nature which suggests the general title of
the book. In certain cases it is the picture of savage nature ravening
for food&mdash;for death to preserve life; in others it is the secret
symbolism of woods and waters prophesying of evils and misadventures
to come. All this does not mean, however, that Mr. Roberts
is either pessimistic or morbid&mdash;it is nature in his books after all,
wholesome in her cruel moods as in her tender."&mdash;<i>The New York
Independent.</i></p></blockquote>




<p>WORKS OF LILIAN BELL</p>


<p><b>Hope Loring.</b> Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.</p>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover      $1.50<br />
</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"Lilian Bell's new novel, 'Hope Loring,' does for the American
girl in fiction what Gibson has done for her in art.</p>

<p>"Tall, slender, and athletic, fragile-looking, yet with nerves and
sinews of steel under the velvet flesh, frank as a boy and tender and
beautiful as a woman, free and independent, yet not bold&mdash;such is
'Hope Loring,' by long odds the subtlest study that has yet been
made of the American girl."&mdash;<i>Dorothy Dix, in the New York
American.</i></p></blockquote>


<blockquote>

<p><b>Abroad with the Jimmies.</b> With a portrait, in
duogravure, of the author.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover      $1.50<br />
</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"A deliciously fresh, graphic book. The writer is so original and
unspoiled that her point of view has value."&mdash;<i>Mary Hartwell
Catherwood.</i></p>

<p>"Full of ozone, of snap, of ginger, of swing and momentum."&mdash;<i>Chicago
Evening Post.</i></p>

<p>" ... Is one of her best and cleverest novels ... filled to the
brim with amusing incidents and experiences. This vivacious narrative
needs no commendation to the readers of Miss Bell's well-known
earlier books."&mdash;<i>N. Y. Press.</i></p></blockquote>


<blockquote>

<p><b>The Interference of Patricia.</b> With a frontispiece
from drawing by Frank T. Merrill.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Small 12mo, cloth, decorative cover      $1.00<br />
</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"There is life and action and brilliancy and dash and cleverness
and a keen appreciation of business ways in this story."&mdash;<i>Grand
Rapids Herald.</i></p>

<p>"A story full of keen and flashing satire."&mdash;<i>Chicago Record-Herald.</i></p></blockquote>


<p><b>A Book of Girls.</b> With a frontispiece.</p>

<p>
Small 12mo, cloth, decorative cover      $1.00<br />
</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"The stories are all eventful and have effective humor."&mdash;<i>New
York Sun.</i></p>

<p>"Lilian Bell surely understands girls, for she depicts all the variations
of girl nature so charmingly."&mdash;<i>Chicago Journal.</i></p>

<p><i>The above two volumes boxed in special holiday dress, per set, $2.50.</i></p></blockquote>


<blockquote>

<p><b>The Red Triangle.</b> Being some further chronicles of
Martin Hewitt, investigator. By <span class="smcap">Arthur Morrison</span>, author
of "The Hole in the Wall," "Tales of Mean Streets," etc.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth decorative      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>This is a genuine, straightforward detective story of the
kind that keeps the reader on the <i>qui vive</i>. Martin Hewitt,
investigator, might well have studied his methods from Sherlock
Holmes, so searching and successful are they.</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"Better than Sherlock Holmes."&mdash;<i>New York Tribune.</i></p>

<p>"The reader who has a grain of fancy or imagination may be
defied to lay this book down, once he has begun it, until the last
word has been reached."&mdash;<i>Philadelphia North American.</i></p>

<p>"If you like a good detective story you will enjoy this."&mdash;<i>Brooklyn
Eagle.</i></p>

<p>"We have found 'The Red Triangle' a book of absorbing interest."&mdash;<i>Rochester
Herald.</i></p>

<p>"Will be eagerly read by every one who likes a tale of mystery."&mdash;<i>The
Scotsman, England.</i></p></blockquote>


<blockquote>

<p><b>Prince Hagen.</b> By <span class="smcap">Upton Sinclair</span>, author of "King
Midas," etc.</p></blockquote>

<p>
Library 12mo, cloth decorative      $1.50<br />
</p>

<p>In this book Mr. Sinclair has written a satire of the first
order&mdash;one worthy to be compared with Swift's biting tirades
against the follies and abuses of mankind.</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"A telling satire on politics and society in modern New York."&mdash;<i>Philadelphia
Public Ledger.</i></p>

<p>"The book has a living vitality and is a strong depiction of
political New York."&mdash;<i>Bookseller, Newsdealer, and Stationer.</i></p></blockquote>

<p><b>The Silent Maid.</b> By <span class="smcap">Frederic W. Pangborn</span>.</p>

<p>Large 16mo, cloth decorative, with a frontispiece by Frank<br />
T. Merrill      $1.00<br />
</p>

<p>A dainty and delicate legend of the brave days of old, of
sprites and pixies, of trolls and gnomes, of ruthless barons and
noble knights. "The Silent Maid" herself, with her strange
bewitchment and wondrous song, is equalled only by Undine
in charm and mystery.</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"Seldom does one find a short tale so idyllic in tone and so fanciful
in motive. The book shows great delicacy of imagination."&mdash;<i>The
Criterion.</i></p></blockquote>

<div class='transnote'><p>Transciber's Notes:</p> <p>Punctuation errors repaired.</p>
<p>Uncommon and inconsistent hyphenation and spelling have been retained;
typographical errors have been corrected.</p>
<p>The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the
corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will <ins title="Transciber's Note: original reads 'apear'">appear</ins>.</p>
</div>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 53154 ***</div>
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