THE NOVELIST

Otago Witness, Issue 4030, 9 June 1931, Page 6

THE NOVELIST

THE FOREST RANGER

By

BEN BOLT.

(Copyright. —For the Otago Witness.)

CHAPTER XX. I Three minutes later Simon Lisieux ami Shervington came into the room where Grenville and the priest waited them. The mariner greeted the soldier as if he had parted with him hut the day before. “Bon soir, major; pleased to see you. You’re just in time. In two hours more mademoiselle and I would have been gone fiom this Christian community.” He broke off and looked at the priest with a gleam of laughter in his eyes. “ You ve got that black crow nicely trussed. Re was my one difficulty. I was afiaid lie would scent my little game.” “ But how did you come here? “ Followed that ravisher de Terry when he carried mademoiselle away from Widow Levin’s house, saw him put the little lady in charge of Indians, and guessed that they were making for this place. I used to trade here a few years back, but sold the business, lock, stock, and barrel to Baptiste Bedard, who runs a store here now. I stole a canoe, and hung on the heels of the Indians with mademoiselle for three days, and then one fine night rolled into their camp with a story of how I had been robbed and stripped by English Rangers. One of the Indians knew me, and when I prayed to be brought here to my friend Baptiste, promising half a keg of rum, they toted me along. ’Twas my idea to get mademoiselle out of their hands; but de Terry had put the fear of hell into them, and I never even had the narrowest chance. ’Twas the same when we reached here. Baptiste Bedard was joyful at the sight of me. He believed the tale about my being robbed, and behaved like a comrade. But I could not trust him with my purpose of freeing Mademoiselle Diane, and I think that black crow there had his instructions, for he watched the little one closely, and saw that sentries were set about the house every night ” “Sentries! We found none!”

“ No! They’ve gone over to the village enjoying the fete which I arranged in honour of the Good St. Sulpice —whose day this is.” He broke off and grinned at the priest. A good deed, father! which will save me a month of Purgatorial fires —you said. And that though the rum is Baptiste Bedard’s.” He laughed cheerfuly as he continued .his explanation. “ Two months ago Baptiste went off to Montreal, where he has a wife and child. He has never returned, and I cherish the notion that if he still lives he has been pressed into Levis’s militia to fight for New France. . . . But the rum is his, and some day I will pay him. . . . I’ve been considering this fete for a month, but not until four days ago did I see my way.” He broke off and laughed again. “ You see my trouble was that the rum alone was not sufficient. There was enough to set St. Croix dancing and screeching, but not enough to deaden it for me to get away with mademoiselle. But four days ago, I found what I wanted. I’d have staked my salvation on its being there; and it was—neatly hidden among the rum casks ” “What?” . ■ “ A small keg of laudarium! A useful thing when you keep an Indian tavern. The Redskins are apt to go screeching wild when they get the rum in them, and then a man’s scalp is in danger; but laudanum in the liquor quietens them ”

“You mean you’ve doctored the rum you have given them? ” cried Grenville. “ To prevent excesses his holy reverence there should frown on—but doesn’t.” Simon Lisieux laughed. “ In half an hour or so his precious fioek will be as quiet as lambs —mostly in the snow, I guess, where they will freeze. And a good thing too. ... Do you know that ’ there are over six hundred scalps nailed to the doors in this village—scalps of white folk from the New England There are, I’ve counted them! . . . And when they catch a Britisher they burn him for a heretic on the village green or its equivalent—that d d crow there giving them benisons. . . . If I had my way he should have ' a chariot of fire of his own to speed him to the hell that w’aits him. . . . As it is, a noggin of doctored rum will serve to make him harmless; but before we go I will fire his filthy church.” “ I have sworn to do that! ” said Grenville. “ We’ll do it together, major, and share the good marks between us. . . . I’ll fetch the rum and his reverence shall keep festival with his flock. If you will tell Mademoiselle Diane to prepare —I will return within ten minutes.” He turned and left the room, a little rolling swagger in his walk, humming cheerfully to himself. They heard him reach the door, open it, and pass outside. Shervington looked at Grenville and laughed.

“ A resourceful mariner—our Simon It seems there are tricks in every trade. But this is one that will serve us well.” “ Yes,” answered Grenville. “It gives us a little time. But there is not much to spare. De Terry is on his way here. The priest there had a runn’er with the news. I heard him tell Diane. He expects him to-morrow or the following day—and though I vowed to kill the man, we must get away at the earliest moment. He will not be alone ” He broke off to listen. There was someone moving outside—hurrying. Before he could speak, the outer door opened and feet stumbled among the bear skins in the passage. A second later Simon Lisieux stood in the doorway of the room gasping, his face, despite the bitter cold, flushed with running, his eyes dancing with excitement. “ The devil! ”he gasped hoarsely. “He is here He is coining to the house.” “Who?” asked Grenville sharply, a sudden fierce gleam in his eyes. “De Terry! . . . He has just arrived. He has left his Indians in the \ illage ” “ Thank heaven! ” “In three minutes he will be here! ”

“ Quick, Shervington, up the passage! Let the rascal come right in, then bar the way out of this room. Simon, find Diane and keep her away. There is a thing that I must do before we leave.” His friends, hurrying, left the room, and Grenville waited, tensely, but exultantly. He picked up his rifle, which he had set down whilst he bound the priest, and looked at the priming less because he had any intention of using the weapon than for precaution’s sake. It was well to be prepared for any treachery where Raoul de Terry was concerned. The priest, who had seen white men tortured frightfully, burned over slow fires in front of his church to make a Christian holiday for his flock, looked at him fearfully, utterly misapprehending that inspection of his rifle. Outside, steps became audible, then for the second time that night they heard a man whistle cheerfully, care-free, as it seemed, and very sure as to what waited him. The air this, time was “ Malbrouck,” and once again Grenville’s mind automatically fitted the words to it. . . . Malbrouck s’en va t’en guerre—

Ne sals quand reviendra ! The siffluer reached the door, and the whistle broke off, Grenville made a guess that the door had been left ajar, for a voice broke out impatiently: Perdition! Some careless fool! ” The door crashed reverberatingly, moc. casined feet came up the passage, paused for a brief fraction of time before the doorway with the deer-skin hanging; then the door was thrust open, and Raoul de Terry stepped into the room. The surprise was complete. Astonishment and incredulity struggled in his eyes, and whilst he stood there, amazed, and too overcome to act, a hand jerked him forward into the room, and the door was shut behind him.

At that the springs of action were unloosed. He swung round swiftly as a snarling wolf to strike; but seeing nothing but the door faced Grenville as swiftly. Raging fires burned in his eyes, and his face under the coonskin cap, which was edged with white rime where his breath, rising, had frozen, was working with hate. “ So,” he snarled, “ you have friends.” “ But they will not step between us,” answered Grenville quietly. “If you will set down your rifle in the corner there ” He had his own rifle trained on the coureur-de-bois as he gave the order, and the other marking the fact, sneered: “You mean to murder me! ” " No! but to kill you certainly—.in fair fight.” “ With your friends outside the door? ” “I have explained that they will remain there. . . . Set down the rifle, man! ” he added sharply, “ or, by God, I will turn executioner! ” Recognising that there was nothing for it but to obey, de Terry set his rifle in the corner indicated, and again Grenville gave an order. . ’: “ Now walk across the room—behind the priest there! Quick, man! I have other work to do before I leave St Croix.”

De Terry, plainly wondering what was in the other’s mind, obeyed him, though with an ill grace, then Grenville gave a call.

“ Shervington! ” Almost on the instant Shervington responded, and Grenville gave the order. “ Carry that rifle forth—and this of mine. Let no one interrupt us.” Shervington took the rifles and disappeared, closing the door, and the two men were left fronting each other, with

the priest watching them with scared eyes. “ Now,” said Grenville, “we stand equal, I think. You have a knife there and I have one of yours. I found it in the Champlain Woods where you had left it after using it for devil’s work. . . . Did you know that man whomyou burned and tortured by the cataract was a cousin of mine?” “No!” the coureur-de-bois snarled. “ Blood of God, had I known that he would not have died so quick. . . . But I am glad that I slew him.” “Um! . . . They say the dead whom men have slain foully reach out hands to drag their slayers down at last.”

“ Bah! If you think to scare me with hobgobi i ns ” “ There was a woman also—a helpless woman, poor to starvation, whose fault for you was that she lent her humble roof to shelter a wounded lady—and whom you hanged brutally “ Mordieu! If you are going to number those whom I have slain, it were well to become prophetic and looking ahead count yourself.” “ You think so? It is well to live in hope! But I have a thought that those two will drag you down to-night, exacting vengeance by my hand . . . when you are ready! ” Raoul de Terry was a villian, but be was not a coward. With a laugh h<» threw his coonskin cap into a corner, doffed the bear skin coat that he wore, whilst Grenville did the same; then in the soft light of the candles they faced each other, as they had done aforetime, but not with the same weapons —sharp hunting knives adapted for either cutting or stabbing, terrible implements when held by resolute hands. The eyes of the coureur-de-bois blazed with hate, but on his handsome face there was a leer of cunning. In his wild life in the woods this was a game that he had played more than once; whilst he was morally certain that to Grenville the experience was altogether new. It would be easy to outwit him, and, whatever happened to himself afterwards, deliver the killing stroke. There was that man outside the door to be reckoned with, and how many more he had no means of knowing; but the two rifles in the corner would serve to clear the way to the outer door, and once in the open, he could call his Indians to his help. He gave a snarling laugh as he began to circle round his opponent, and then quite suddenly he leaped in with a slashing stroke, as a wolf leaps to clash with his teeth. The stroke missed, because Grenville, anticipating it, had sidestepped; but before the stroke could be countered he was away, at the far end of the room and dancing round for new vantage. Three seconds later he leaped in again and this time the knives rasped together and as they did so Grenville tried to get a grip. De Terry eluded him, however, and they circled round as fighting wolves circle, watchful for the advantage that would help the stroke. Then Grenville launched himself forward. Swift as lightning the eoureur-de-bois whirled aside, and struck the other as he passed. Grenville felt the steel burning his shoulder, and heard his opponent laugh. “ The first touch, fool! At the second ” Grenville was back before he could find the threat. There was a cold, aloof look in his eyes. He betrayed no heat at the wound he had suffered, no perturbance that the other should have drawn first blood. Coolly, as if fighting in this savage way were an everyday thing with him, he began to circle round his opponent, as if looking for the chance to leap in with the deadly slash. The set, cold look in his eyes disturbed the coureur-de-bois. He gave way, moving nimbly round the room, now sideways, now pirouetting on his toes like a dancing master; and Grenville followed him steadily, not meaning to leap in himself, but with the purpose of forcing the offensive on the other. His coolness as of one certain of the issue startled and disturbed the coureur-de-bois. He had fought with men in this fashion before, and all the advantage of experience was his; but whilst he had seen men cautious, eager, alert, even reckless, never had he faced a man who was so cold, who acted as if impelled to some predestined thing. Round and round the room he went, narrowly missed the stool where the priest was bound, and then his nerve, a little shaken, he leaped in once more. Grenville’s knifehand met the downward stroke, turning it aside narrowly, and in the same second, his left arm flung round the other seeking to grip him. “ Now! ” he ejaculated. But de Terry was quick. Like an eel he wriggled himself free, only to find Grenville following him once more with that look of inevitability that he found so disturbing. Once at the far end of the room he let his left hand strav towards the blade. He could throw a knife like a conjurer, and it would be easy to disable the man who came on like stalking death. But if he missed? He would be disarmed, utterly at Grenville’s mercy, and as he decided the risk was too great, Grenville, who had seen the movement, laughed sharply. The laugh disturbed the Frenchman profoundly. He read knowledge of his treacherous thought in the other’s eyes, and conscious of contempt there was stung to rage. He leaped in, and struck fiercely. This time Grenville’s left hand caught the descending arm, gripping tlm wrist, closing it in a vice. He triedto wrench himself free; then, failing,

sought and caught Grenville’s knife hand in turn.

Then for a time they stood straining, each trying to break the other’s hold, both knowing that to the man who lost in that effort death must come. They stood rigid, muscles knotted, tendon and sinews straining, all the strength in their bodies concentrated to a single end. Their breath came gaspingly, the sweat started on their foreheads and ran down their faces. It seemed that they were fixed there, rigid, turned to stone; then de Terry gave a little groan as he felt himself weakening. The hand with the knife was slowly bearing down on him. His muscles were cracking. In a moment they must give way, and then He saw a gleam of triumph in Grenville’s eyes which until now had been so aloof and cold. That stirred him to desperation. He lifted one leg sharply, hoping to take the Englishman with a disabling knee-kick in the abdomen. It was a fatal move. Scarcely had his foot left the floor when Grenville’s strength bore him down and they crashed on the floor together, knife hands free at last. De Terry struck upwards, blindly, desperately, stabbing only the air; whilst Grenville, coolly, and, with knowledge that justice and necessity alike demanded the stroke, struck downwards once, and truly.

The knife dropped from the other’s hand, he jumped convulsively, a flash of fear came in his eyes, and a halfsobbing curse broke from him. “ Diable! ”

_ Again his body was shaken as by a rigor, then he stretched himself sharply, sighed heavily, and lay still. Grenville lifted himself to his feet, and stood for a moment, breathing a little gaspingly. Then he brushed the sweat from his eyes and looked down on the dead man. In that moment he visioned three things swiftly, almost simultaneously—this man as with Diane he had seen him come along the war trail with a woman’s golden hair at his belt; his cousin tied to a tree, feet charred in the smouldering fire, with bowed head raw and bloody; and Widow Levin hanging from the beam in her poor home. A savage impulse swept him. Had he lain where that man lay, by now the villain would have been ripping his scalp away. It was but poetical justice that he should suffer that last horror and contumely, that he had often inflicted on the helpless. He stooped and picked up the knife he had dropped, looking qt its blood-stained blade, and then down at the dead man. He shivered. It might be just, a fitting thing to mete out savagery to a man who had turned himself into a savage; but it was horror that his clean soul would not permit him. He flung the knife from him, and called out to his friend.

Shervington hurried in with Simon Lisieux at his heels, bearing a pannikin. The former looked at the dead man on the floor coolly. “ So,” he said, “ the score is paid.” “Yes!” “ And our little one is delivered,” said the mariner. Then he walked across to the priest, dragging the gag aside, and thrust the pannikin to his lips. “ Drink, Pere Antoine! ” he commanded. “To mademoiselle’s happiness! ” The priest shrank back, and Simon Lisieux laughed. “You think it is poisoned, hey? But ’tis no more than a sleeping draught! ” The laughter died from his eyes, and a ferocious note came in his voice. “ Drink, foul priest, or, blood of Peter! you shall die as died that man there.’-’

The priest’s teeth chattered against the tin, he gave a groan, then gulped some of the liquor. It made him cough; but the sailor was remorseless. “ They say you cannot make a horse drink, but a priest—Ho! ho! he can be persuaded. Another sup, holy father. It is the fete of a saint, and abstemiousness would be a crime.” He held the pannikin to the priest’s lips until it was drained, then he laughed. “ Presently, if these gentlemen permit, you will go forth; and if you are wise you will walk and walk to fight the sleep away. But you need not be cold, no! You will have fires enough to last •■ou through the night.” He turned to Grenville. “ There is need for no great haste. The stuff works powerfullv. Already in the village they are nodding . it the fires—even those whom that dead •nan brought with him—who were thirsty ind drank excessively. With your permission I will go arrange the bonfires, Sulpice in Heaven should be pleased vith his festival rites.”

He laughed and went out, whilst Grenille looked at his friend. “ Diane? ” “In the room beyond.” He went there quickly and silently, ■.nd found the door ajar, the skin hanging drawn aside. A single candle lit he room and by its dim light saw Diane neeling. Then he caught a whisper. “ Holy mother . . . protect hha • ■ • diield him as thou wouldst have shielded by divine Son . . . Intercede . . .” “Diane!” he whispered. She heard him through her own apprehensive prayer, and rose swiftly to her eet. Her long lashes were wet with ears, there were stains upon her cheeks, but as she saw him a great light of joy kindled in the dark eyes. “ Mon cher.” she whispered. “ Mon •her Jean! The good God has delivered ou!” She ran to his open arms, and for a time lay against his shoulder. Then she lifted her face. That man. . . I heard him come. He . , . he . .

“ He will trouble us no more for ever,, my dear!” “So?” she whispered. “So! You. killed him?” “As he deserved . . . You cannot know how evil he was!” Ah, but I do! I do! , . . Poor' Madame Levin. ... I heard her cry out. . . He slew her ? ” “ Yes!” “ God pity her soul. She was a good, friend of mine. . . . That you slew him is just! . . . And le bon Dieu sent you here to-night. . . . To-morrow if you had not come and Simon Lisieux had failed I must have married him. That wicked priest had brought the news ’” “ Yes, I know. . . . But soon you shall wed with me, Diane. An hour after we reach Quebec!” “We go there, mon Jean?”

“We start to-night. . . But I must go> out to the village first. There is work to be done.” “Go, my heart! I shall be waiting, as those who wait for the morning. But kiss me first, my beloved.” He went out to find Simon Lisieux awaiting him. “ Our bonfire, major. It is time to prepare it.” “Y'es! I will get my beaver coat and cap, and we will go.” Leaving Shervington to watch over Diane, and guard the priest, who already had a look of drunken somnolence, they walked towards the village. As they came near the fires Grenville was astonished at the sight presented. About them Indians were lying apparently in the last stage of drunkenness, whilst here and there a woman was among them. Two or three other women were dragging their men towards the cabins; and there was not a single Indian in a condition to offer opposition. The sailor chuckled at his handiwork.

“ Powerful—powerful! Jupiter, how they sleep!” “ They’ll know no waking if the frost gets them.” “What matter? A month ago they burned two rangers to death in front of the church there. I saw’ them, but could do nothing. One of the poor fellows lived two days. And the women—but you know their foul ways. What matter if they perish? The place is a plague spot —Christian three generations, and any honest pagan in the six nations is snowwhite beside the foulness of these folk. But fire will cleanse the place!” They worked quickly. It is easier to destroy tlian to build, and there was no lack of combustibles. The church, ths priest’s house, some of the cabins, and, last of all, the seigneurie, were prepared for burning, and when all was ready the sled loaded; and Shervington and Diane clear of the village, with brands from the fires Grenville and Simon set the buildings alight. Some of the women shrieked curses at them, but there was no man to oppose, and when the buildings were well alight beyond all chance of being extinguished, the two men hurried away—the last person they saw being Father Antoine, who, with his predecessors at St. Croix, had been content with ceremony whilst neglecting the weightier matters of the law. He was staggering blindly in the direction of one of the cabins, no doubt with the thought that there, shielded from the bitter cold when the drugged sleep overcame him, he’ would yet save his reprobate life.

They found Shervington and Diane awaiting them on the farther bank of the river, and there paused for a last look at St. Croix. It was blazing furiously, the smoke of its burning rolling in clouds towards the sullen woods behind, which stood funereal in the ruddy light. The foreground of snow and river ice was dyed in fiery hues; anX such cabins in the village as were not already alight were little patches of darkness, in and out of which hurried dark figures, frantically, like ants whose dwelling heap has been disturbed. Grenville’s eyes went to the seigneurie. It was burning like a torch. “ A rare funeral pyre! ” commented the mariner, noting the direction of his gaze. “ It is the end,” whispered Diane, her thoughts on the man whose body by this must be shrivelling in those fierce flames. “ Yes! The very end,” answered her lover. “ Raoul de Terry will trouble us no more.” He turned and entered the great woods. After a little while Grenville looked back. An orange-coloured glow against which trees were darkly outlined told him that St. Croix still burned though the place itself was out of sight. They pushed on steadily, knowing that the morrow might bring the Indians upon the trail of vengeance. But the dawn brought snow, obliterating all trails, and lessening their fears on that score. But the wilderness they traversed had other perils—perils that had nothing to do with the great cold and the common difficulties of a winter trail through the woods. As they approached the St. Lawrence they twice crossed the trails of men who like themselves must have been traversing the woods—hunting parties of soldiers or coureurs-de-bois from the French camp up river, as they guessed, ranging for game or provisions, both of which were exceedingly scarce, since two armies had swept the country bare. Once they saw such a party cross the line of their march not five hundred yards away, and were forced to crouch in the snow behind trees until the wood-rangers were beyond sight and hearing. Two nights later they had an encounter. Ten men walked into their camp as they -were settling for the night—coureurs-de-bois who had been

d

own the river. The leader of them—a young French officer, little more than a lad, stared at Diane in incredulous wonder. .“Mademoiselle!” he cried. “You?'’ Diane had the wit to laugh. “ A surprise to you, Monsieur Eony,” she answered, for the lad was one with whom she had danced more than once at the Intendent’s palace at Quebec. “ A pleasant one, believe me, mademoiselle. . . . There was a story of your being carried from the cathedral on the day of your projected marriage ” “It is quite true! ” intervened Diane quickly. “ I was carried away, and but for these three gallant gentlemen I should have been languishing now.” The lad saluted the three Britishers, never questioning that they belonged to his own men.

“ One envies your good fortune, gentlemen, in having served so charming a lady. . . . But you know you cannot return to Quebec.” “ Diable! ” blurted Simon, “ those devils of English have taken it then? ” “ They are in possession—for the moment. But neck and crop we shall turn them out in the spring, and send the dogs packing with their tails between their legs, across their old border. Already Levis is preparing for the counter siege, and he cannot fail—unless the English ships should come up the river early, when the ice breaks.” He looked at Diane. “ His Excellency the Governor, your uncle, is now at Montreal. . . . You will be going there doubtless, and I can offer you a sufficient escort.” Diane shook her head, and laughed. “ You know, Monsieur Bony, I cannot accept. These gentlemen at great peril have brought me safe from peril; and my uncle must make acquaintance with my deliverers. You will see it cannot be otherwise.” The youngster made a wry face. “ I have no luck,” he said. “ When I would serve a charming lady, I find the ground cumbered and cannot get near her. . . . But you should take a larger escort, mademoiselle. There are perils still. The English woodrangers are abroad. If you meet with them you will be taken for a hostage — a great prize.” Diane laughed again. “ Monsiegner, you exaggerate my value. . . . And for perils, why, 1 grow accustomed to them. . . . But my three paladins are sufficient. Having delivered me from the greater peril, they will carry me through the lesser ones. But I shall remember your offer and mention your name to my uncle when we meet.”

“ That is kind of you, mademoiselle,” laughed the lad. “ Even a soldier is no worse for having a friend at court. . . . But I will not keep you from your dreams. Good journeying and bon soir! mademoiselle. May God go with you.” He went away, taking his men with him, and after congratulating Diane on her handling of an awkward situation, leaving Shervington on the watch, the other three rolled themselves in blankets and rabbit skin rugs to sleep. Shervington, near the fire, watched steadily for nearly two hours, then renewed the fire and lit a pipe. The wood under snow was very still, and in the ghostly gloom the nearest trunks were dimly visible, the only thing clear to his vision being a low star which seemed from the. position where he sat to be hung like a jewel in the boughs of a tree. From time to time as he lifted his eyes from the fire, it was there in front of his eyes, a friendly thing in the night; but there came a moment when chancing to look up he did not see it. At that he stiffened, and became suddenly very watchful. A cloud might have obscured that twinkling point: or the natural movement of the earth have carried him out of view; but though he had heard nothing he did not believe that either accounted for the disappearance of the star. He stared into the darkness where it should be for a full two minutes, unmoving but very much on the alert. Unexpectedly the star gleamed again. Then he knew' that there was something there between the trees, very close, something which moved, and was watching the camp. Was it beast or man? T}iere were woodland caribou in the forest. They had killed one quite early in the day for meat. Was it ? In the darkness came a faint click—the cocking of a rifle. That sound revealed to his alert ears that there was a man there, perhaps more than one; and he •was in a quandary to act. If he awakened his companions he might precipitate an attack, if he did not he might expose them to utter surprise. He thought for a moment, then with an apparent obliviousness of the man out there in the darkness, he stretched a foot, and kicked the logs in the fire. One of them crackled into flame, and he glimpsed the man more clearly; whilst at the same time out of the gloom came a sudden laugh, and an English voice cried out —

“ A good trick, Shervington. For the Lord’s sake, don’t shoot.” The stranger advanced into the light, a man dressed in the uniform of Starke’s New England Rangers—an officer. “ Landon! By the powers! ” “ With half a company of Rangers. Lucky for you that we’re not coureurs-de-bois.”

Other men appeared, as Grenville and Simon and Diane rolled out of their blankets; and in a moment the camp was crowded with the colonials whose woodcraft made them the equal of Indians, in forest warfare.

“You’re welcome as the geese in spring,” said Grenville to Landon who was known to him as to Shervington “ and if you can shepherd us to Quebec. I shall be infinitely grateful.” ' “ Oh, we’ll shepherd you, all right, major. We’re on our way back now. having taken a convoy of provisions meant for Levis’s Frenchmen at Jacques. We shall make the city the day after to-morrow.”

The officer’s confidence was entirely justified. They made Quebec on the night of the second day, and two days later Grenville married Diane in the shattered cathedral, all the ladies in Quebec flocking to the ceremony, as they had flocked when Diane had been with another bridegroom. At the fete after the civil ceremony, Grenville, separated from his bride for a moment or two, found himself confronted by that sparkling-lady Madame de Vionne. “So,” she said, “you win, Monsieur Grenville.” “As you see! ” “And Raoul? You think that he will leave you in quiet?” “ I am sure of it.” “Ah! You slew him?” “And burned him in his Seigneurie, with that village and the church for his funeral candles.” Madame stared at him a little wonderingly. “ How many ? ” she asked quickly. “ How many men were with you? ” “ One when I started; but I found another there.” “Then there were three of you? Three only?” The lady made a gesture expressive of terrific amazement. Then she looked round on the ladies of her nation about her, and spoke musingly—- “ And there are those here who think that in the spring Vaudreuil and General Levis wil drive you down the river! Mon dieu! What blindness! Three! Three! And St. Croix a bonfire. . . .

Monsieur Grenville, I will turn prophetess, though I be burned for a witch. You English will certainly hold Quebec,” —she laughed a little shrilly—“ with such men you can do no less. I must go kiss Diane and then take me to the cathedral to burn many candles.” She laughed again. “ Maybe le bon Dieu will send me an Englishman—if I burn wax candles.”

Her light prophecy, as all the world knows, had fulfilment. Through the bitter winter, decimated by sickness, in sufficiently clothed and fed, in a ruined city, isolated in a hostile land, with no hope of succour whatever till the ice should break and allow of help from the seas, those far outnumbered men endured their icy vigil, and kept watch and ward till England herself relieved their guard. They fought one pitched battle, the-, prepared for the assault that would come, their officers yoking themselves in har ness to drag the guns from the lower town, and working with pick and spade at the batteries like navvies. That they would keep what they had so gallantly won they swore, officer and man alike; but there were men who knew that no; on the plains of Maitre Abraham would the final throw be made.

John Grenville, attached to General Murray’s staff, was one of these. As the' spring came on apace, he walked the ramparts with Diane whenever oppor tunity afforded, and always his eyes turned eastward down the noble river now sweeping its failing ice to the sea. To Diane he expounded the position. “If our ships come first, that army outside the walls matters not a hair. It will have to go helter-skelter or be blown to dust. But if the French ships win the race then we are undone, and our Wolfe died in vain.”

Then, early in May came news of warships down the river, but whose ship.they were no man knew. On the morning of- the 9th a ship of war came in sight and gracefully, like a great white bird, sailed into the basin. Thousands in the city watched; thousands of Frenchmen also; for she bore no colours. Breathless, in terrific suspense, they waited, those watching thousands; and on the ramparts with Murray, John Grenville, with his wife, waited as anxiously. There was a movement on the ship, something was running up the halyards, then the colours broke. “English, by God!” cried a sentry, flinging his shako into the air. “ Hooray-y-y!”'

The cheer was taken up. It grew and swelled and ran through the city in a great tidal wave of sound, gathering strength as it reached the soldiers toiling at the defences, who, as they realised its significance, mounted the parapets, officers and men alike, and in face of their enemy huzzaed with their hats in the air for a full hour.

In the very midst of the joyful shouting in a secluded recess of the ramparts, watching a captain’s barge leave the warship’s side, Diane pinched her husband’s arm.

“Mon Dieu! ” she said. “What a din your countrymen are making, my Jean.” “My countrymen?” he challenged rallyingly.

‘j Oh! - ours then! ” she laughed. “ But there was a thing said to me by our great Montcalm when he gave me your life at Ticonderoga that it is well to have in mind— ‘ Perhaps our Canada will be made by two races! ” She broke off and looked at him a little shyly, a high colour in her face, but with a glint of laughter in her eyes. “And there was also a thing that old Mesliukwa said almost at the same time, about the great song ” she broke off. Her face glowed, her eyes were dancing now, and she began to hum a little quiveringly: —

Qui va la! There’s someone in the orchard “Diane! ” he cried, a question in his ’yes. “Why, yes!” she whispered back. “Thy son and mine—he will make this great land—which my countrymen and thy countrymen have won. So ” she made a gesture towards the warships which made an end of the Hope of France, and shrugged her shoulders—- “ What matter? Tout va bien! ” “All’s well indeed! ” said John Grenville as he caught her to his arms. (The End.)