IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 1.1 m 12,2 lU u IIS lU u ■ *0 2.0 |l£ |||l-25 |||U ||.6 - ^ 6" r- > Photographic Sdfflices Corporation ^ '^ \ <^ ^. v\ 23 WKT MAIN STMIT WIISTn.N.Y. MStO (71«)«72-4S03 CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Instituta for Historical Microraproductiont / Institut Canadian da microraprodiictiori* historiquaa Technical and Bibliographic Notas/Notaa tochniquas at bibliographiquaa Tha Instituta has attamptad to obtain tha baat ori()inal copy availabia for filming. Faaturaa of thia copy which may ba bibliographically uniqua, which may altar any of tha imagaa in tha raproduction, or which may significantly changa the usual method of filming, are checked below. D Coloured covers/ Couverture de couleur I I Covers damaged/ D Couverture endommag6e Covers restored and/or laminated/ Couverture restaurAe et/ou pellicuMe I I Cover title missing/ Le titre de couverture manque I I Coloured maps/ D Cartas giographiquas an couleur Coloured Ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/ Encra de couleur (i.e. autre que bieue ou noire) I I Coloured plates and/or illustrations/ D Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur Bound with other material/ Reli6 avec d'autres documents r~~l Tight binding may causa shadows or distortion D D along interior margin/ La re Mure serrde peut causer de I'ombre ou de la distortion le long de la merge inttrieure Blank leaves added during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitted from filming/ II se peut que certainas pages blanches ajouttes lors d'una restauration apparaissent dans la taxte, mais. lorsqua cela Atait possible, ces pag«s n'ont pas AtA filmtes. Additional comments:/ Commentaires suppl6mentaires: The toti L'Institut a microfilm* le meilleur exemplaira qu'ii lui a AtA possible de se procurer. Les details de cot exemplaira qui sont peut-Atre uniques du point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une modification dana la mithoda normale de filmage sont indiqute ci-dessous. I I Coloured pages/ y/ D Pages de couleur Pages damaged/ Pages endommagias Pages restored and/or laminated/ Pages restaur^as et/ou pellicuMes Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ Pages dAcoiortes. tachetdes ou piquias Pages detached/ Pages dAtachies The pow ofti film Orifl bagi the sion othi first sion orii Showthrough/ Transparence I I Quality of print varies/ Quality inigaie de I'impression Includes supplementary material/ Comprend du mat6riel supplAmentaira Only edition available/ Seule Mition disponible The shal TINi whi Mai diffi anti begl righ reqi met Pages wholly or psrtially obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc.. have been refilmed to ensure the best possible image/ Les pages totalement ou partiallement obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata. une peiure, etc., ont hxh filmtes A nouveau de fapon A obtenir la mailleure image possible. This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est f ilmA au taux da reduction indiqu* ci-deasous. 10X 14X 18X 22X 26X 30X v/ 12X 16X 20X MX 2SX 32X The copy fllmMl hcra hat iHMn reproduced thanks to tho gonorotity of: Library of the Public Archives of Canada L'exemplaire fiimA fut reproduit grice A la gAnAroaM da: La bIbliothAque des Archives publiques du Canada The images appeering here are the best quality possible considering the condition and legibility of the original copy and in Iceeping with the filming contract specificationa. Original copiea in printed paper covera are filmed beginning with the front cover and ending on the last prge with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, or the bacic cover when appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impression. Les imagsa suivantes ont Ati reproduites avac la plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et do la nottatA de l'exemplaire film*, et en conformity avec les conditions du contrat de filmage. Les exemplairas originaux dont la couverture en papier est imprimte sent filmto en commencant par la premier plat et en terminant soit par la darniAre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impreaaion ou d'illustration, soit par le second plat, salon le cas. Tous les autres exemplairas originaux sent filmAs en commenpant par la pramiAre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la darniAre page qui comporte une teiie empreinte. The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol -^ (meaning "CON- TINUED"), or the symbol y (meaning "END"), whichever applies. Un des symboles suivsnts apparaltra sur la dernlAre image de cheque microfiche, seion le cas: le symboie — ► signif.e "A SUiVRE". le symbols ▼ signifie "FIN ". Mapa, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed et different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hend corner, left to right and top to bottom, aa many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre filmfo A des taux de reduction diff Arents. Lorsque le document est trop grsnd pour Atre reproduit en un seui ciichA, 11 est fiimA A partir de Tangle supArieur gauche, de geuche A droite, et de heut en bee, en prenant le nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. i' I \ I ■^ •*/ f "i Printed by J. Darling & Son, LeadeniiaU Street, Ivondoii, A'^ QUEBEC AND NEW YORK ; OR, \ THE THREE BEAUTIES. AH HISTORICAL ROMANCE OF 1775. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE PIRATE OF THE GULF, &<. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: A. K. NEWMAN AND CO. 1839. v^ \ 1 I ■J 1,605 m :^^i. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. CHAP. I. The Monk, The bells of a ruined monastery in the vale of Chaudiere were chiming the hour of evening service at the close of a cold windy day in the month of November, seventeen hundred and seventy -five, when a single traveller, in the garb of a Roman Catholic priest, appeared on the skirts of a forest, that, sacred from the invading ploughshare, or the axe of the woodman, stretch- ed many leagues into the province of Maine. His steps were slow and heavy, as if he had travelled many a weary mile of the vast wilderr ness behind him ; and when the north wind VOL. I. , "" B 2 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. howled at intervals through the wood, he drew his garment still closer ahout his person, and bore himself with a sturdier step ; but, never- theless, his slight frame and vacillating limbs did not promise to withstand for a much longer space such rude assaults. Although faint with fasting, and toilworn with long travel, yet the sound of the convent bell, as it swept past him on the wind, infused addi- tional vigour into his limbs ; and roused to re- newed exertions, with an exclamation of joy, he hastened forward to a slight eminence which rose in his path : from its summit he beheld a pro- spect that fully rewarded him for all the hard- ships he had endured in his lonely pilgrimage through the wilderness. Beneath him lay a se- cluded and pleasant valley, about a league in breadth, guarded from the wintry winds that swept the highlands, by a chain of hills, wooded to their tops with forest trees, the lingering fo- liage of which was dyed with every hue of the rainbow. Through its bosom the Chaudiere flowed, in a thousand romantic windings, towards a scarcely-visible opening in the range of hills I 15 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. to the north, through which to pour its tributary waters into the St. Lawrence, Leaning on his staiF, his eyes expressive of that delight experienced by the true admirer of Nature when contemplating her lovelier features, he lingered a moment to trace the graceful meanderings of the river, now wheeling peace- fully around the base of the hill on which he stood, its glassy breast unruffled by the slightest zephyr, now gurgling and rippling among pro- truding rocks, and now rushing with velocity to the brink of a precipice, then, with a roar that rose distinctly to his ears, plunging into a foam- ing basin, from which ascended a cloud of snowy vapour, catching from the beams of the setting sun, as it sailed above the valley, a thousand brilliant and varied hues. Again his eye would follow it, gliding with the stillness of a lake into the depths of a forest, in the recesses of which it was lost to the sight, until it reappeared in a glen full half a league beyond, through which it rushed in a hundred cascades, brilliantly white with foam and dancing spray; then, separating • B 2 ..-:.. -•. t^ QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. in a broader part of the valley, it formed nu- merous verdant islands, rich in summer with the greenest verdure, and clothed with woods so or- namentally disposed in clumps and groves by tlie hand of Nature, that art would have dimi- nished rather than added to their picturesque beauty. On one of these islands, cither of which the father of poetry might have chosen for the abode of Calypso, the traveller discovered the convent, whose vesper bell, the harbinger of ci- vilization to his ears, had infused new vigour into his frame. Besides this edifice, a few pea- sants* cottages, sprinkled here and there through the valley, and surrounded by small enclosures of cultivated ground, the harvests long since ga- thered, were the only indications to him of the presence of fellow-beings. After gazing, until twilight rendered distant objects dim and uncertain, upon the scene so unexpectedly presented to his eyes, long familiar only with the gloomy grandeur of pathless fo- rests, occasionally relieved by the hut of their savage denizen, the traveller gathered the folds of his robe beneath his belt, and grasped his staff QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. resolutely; then for a moment fixing his eyes upon the towers of the island convent, as the last chime of the bells ceased to echo among the hills, he said, as he prepared to descend a rude path, if the scarcely-visible track left by the hunter or beasts of prey may thus be denominated — " There shall I find what I most need, a night's repose, and, if all tales be true, good and sub- stantial cheer withal ; for the reverend fathers, while they have cure of the souls of their floclcs, are not wont to neglect their own bodily com- forts." Thus speaking, he set for\vard with an active step, and following the precipitous path down the face of the hill, after a perilous and rapid descent, gained the river at a point where it was confined in a deep channel by rugged cliffs. Entering a sheep-track on the verge of the tu- multuous stream, he walked vigorously on, at one time descending precipices, at another cross- ing intervals strewn with autumnal leaves, with the river, broken from its confinement, gliding noiselessly by within reach of his staff. At length he entered the wood in which the stream had ! QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. become lost to his eye from the brow of the hill; and as the twilight was fast thickening into night, he quickened his pace, and traversed its gloomy labyrinths at a rate his former appar- ent fatigue did not by any means promise. As he emerged into the open valley, through which the river flowed, studded with islands, the tower of the convent was visible half a mile distant, with a light faintly glimmering in one of its windows. The path was now more trodden, and the signs of careful husbandry were visible around him. Passing through a narrow lane, bounded by evergreen hedges, a few minutes' walk con- ducted him to a peasant's cot, situated on the banks of the river, and nearly opposite the mo- nastery. He paused a moment in the shadow of a tree, which cast its branches over the roof, and surveyed the humble dwelling. It was one story high, constructed of wood, neatly whitewashed, and, like most Canadian houses of the class, with a single chimney rising in the centre. A garden adjoined it, and al- though not arranged with horticultural precision, it appeared to have abounded, during the proper QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 7 season, with every variety of fruit and culinary vegetable peculiar to the climate; while here and there a small cluster of flowers, and the fur- ther display of floral taste in the ornamental ap- pendages of one or two vases placed on an humble portico before the door, betrayed the presence of a passion usually found alone in higher walks of life, but which is a natural attribute of the light-hearted and romantic pea- santry of the Canadian valleys. A bright fire blazed in the huge stone chimney, shedding its cheerful light throughout the apartment, and flashing at intervals through the window upon the person of the traveller. A young and very handsome female was arranging a small round table in the centre of the room for the evening meal, while three or four ruddy-cheeked boys, with one little girl, were watching,, with very decided infantile epicureanism, the tedious pro- cess of the baking of half a score of brown cakes on a griddle. The table, with its snowy cloth, the shining dresser, the well-scoured white floor, and a certain tidy air reigning over the whole interior of the cottage, combined with 8 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 1. ' I the picturesque mantelet and gay head dress, a la Francaise, of the female, with the group of children, decreasing, from the eldest pro- gressively downward, half a head in height, showed, altogether, the happy mother, the con- scious beauty, and the frugal housewife. The traveller sighed as he gazed on this humble scene of domestic happiness. — " Here, at least, is the abode of peace and contentment, if such there be on earth," he said, half aloud ; " the voice of criminal ambition never reaches this happy threshold. Alike ignorant of the vices and pleasures of the world, the highest aim of its inmates is faithfully to fulfil their duty to God and their neighbour. Their errors are those of thought rather than of action ; never tempted, they are guiltless: with light hearts and clear consciences, they enjoy the present with thankfulness, and look to the future with- out dread. Why is my destiny so opposite? Why am I tortured with ambitious aspirations, and mocked, sleeping and waking, with visions of power and empire, which, when I would grasp them, elude me ? Delusive temptations. .1 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. pointing me to the temple's pinnacle that my fall may be far and sure ! But stand or fall I must fulfil my destiny, and obey that restless spirit within which bids me onward. But, alas ! high as I may climb, the time may come when, perchance, I shall sigh to exchange lots with the veriest hind that ever whistled behind a plough." His half-spoken thoughts were interrupted by a footstep approaching from behind, and a manly voice at the same time saluting him re- spectfully in the Canadian patois. — " Good even, father, thou art somewhat late to cross the water to-night. St. Claude locks fast at vespers, and no key but a golden one, which seldom hangs at a priest's girdle, can turn back her rusty bolt till the third cock-crowing." The monk started slightly at the unexpected presence and address of the speaker, and then courteously replied to his salutation, at the same time fixing his eyes upon him with a keen and searching glance, as if he would read the inner man by his outward seeming. b3 fs ' \ i 10 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. This second individual, who was now visible by the light which shone brightly through the cottage window full upon his person, was tall and finely moulded, and clothed in the ordinary dress of the Canadian peasant. This consisted of a grey capote, or loose surtout, reaching to the knee, confined at the waist by a gay sash of mingled green and scarlet colours, and close- ly buttoned to the throat, exposing to advantage the breadth and massive proportions of his chest. His head was surmounted by the bonnet bleu, which he wore with a jaunting air, and. moccasins of undressed moose-hide covered his feet. A short French fowlingpiece that he carried carelessly in one hand, a string of wild game held in the other, aiid a large brown dog of the Newfoundland breed which followed at his heels, completed the sum of his attendants, equipments, and costume. " The holy fathers are at their pupper now," continued the peasant, " and old Homfroy careth little to leave his snug chimney side to open gates after the stars begin to twinkle. Jaquette, I see, by the bright blaze on the 1 'I i'l (i QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 11 V visible ugh the was tall ardinary onsisted ihing to fay sash d close- vantage of his i bonnet iir, and. sred his hat he of wild ivn dog wed at iidants, now," amfroy side to (tinkle, •n the .■^i hearth, has spread the table, so enter, good father, and bless my roof and grace my board, though it will ill compare with that of thy re- fectory. Nevertheless, it shall ne'er be said habitan Francois Benoit let vicaire or novice pass his door, or sail his ferry, without first blessing and breaking bread at his board. Thou art weary, father ; but a comfortable chair, one of these ducks well broiled, and a cup of Ja- quette's wine, of her own vintage, to moisten it, will cheer thee up, and make thee lean less heavily on thy staff." " Thank you, thank you, friend — I would say, my son," replied the monk, who still re- tained his original position beneath the tree ; " but time presses, and I must cross the water before I sleep. I will, nevertheless, accept your pious offer, and taste your good cheer, for I have travelled far ; and afterward, with what speed you may, ferry me over to yonder island, if, as I conjecture from its position, it is where the learned Father Etienne exercises spiritual control." . m " Then, father," said the peasant, observing ' ! \ ill 12 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. him more closely, " thou art not of the brother- hood of St. Claude o' the Island ? And now thou hast not thy face so muffled in thy cowl, I see thou art a stranger, for each one of the priest's faces, and they are few and old, is as well known to me, saving their reverences, as my own, seeing that I have pulled an oar face to face with them all, since Jaquette and I were married, which will be five years come Michael- mas. But if thou visitest the monastery, and knowest Father Etienne, he will give thee a good welcome, either with Gascon wines or clerkly Latin, venison steaks or homilies, as will best chime with thy humour and his own." As he finished speaking he advanced to the door of his dwelling, followed by the monk. They were met on the threshold by the young wife, who, hearing the voice of her husband outside, opened it for the purpose of flying into his arms, for the attitude in which she was arrested by the sight of the stranger as she was crossing the threshold, and the conscious blush which increased her beauty, sufficiently betrayed this to have been the wifely mode in fif QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 18 which she intended to welcome him home after a whole day's absence on the hills. " Sacre sainte Marie, Jaquette !" exclaimed the husband, good humouredly, " be thy wits fled, because a holy priest deigns to bless us with his presence ? — Give me a kiss ! No ? Nay, then, if thou'rt so coy, wife, before a holy monk, because, forsooth, he carries youth in his eye, he shall give thee the kiss of sisterhood, which is his right to bestow." v -* " The father, but not thee, Francois, in such a presence," said the blushing dame ; and as she spoke, she presented, with great simplicity and reverence, her mantling cheek to the salu- tation of the youthful priest, who, apparently surprised, but not disconcerted, gracefully passed his arm half round her waist, and gently draw* ing her towards him, pressed, instead, her lips with his own, and with rather more warmth than beseemed his cloth and the self-denying vows of his order, enjoining upon it members to flee oscula mulierum, " Beshrew me, father," said the husband, " there was much unction in that reverend sa- 14 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. r^ I lutation. I would swear, saving your reve- rence's presence, thou wert a Benedictine, and hadst a wife of thine own to practise on; for, verily, thou knowest the kiss of sisterhood with such familiar grace, as is not learned in St. Claude's convent walls at least." The monk smiled, and accepted a chair which his host, while speaking, had placed for him at the table, already covered with the smoking viands constituting the usual evening meal. Francois, Jaquette, and the little epicures before mentioned, having also taken their accustomed places, and the dog seated himself on his haunches by the chair of the youngest with a wistful look, one of the children, impatient and hungry, thrust his little fist into the plate of cakes, when his mother cried out, reprovingly — " Fie, fie, Martin ! — where are the child's manners and religion ? Dost know the holy father has not yet said grace ? — ^wouldst eat food unblessed, like a wild Indian, child ?" At this hint the child drew back abashed, casting his eyes obliquely up into the face of the holy man, whose presence had placed such i QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 15 an ill-timed injunction upon his appetite. The priest himself appeared suddenly embarrassed ; but after a moment's pause, and at the request of Francois that he would say a giace over their food, he dropped his face within his cowl, and muttered something scarcely audible ; then pat- ting little Martin on his curly head, he said, cheerfully — " Now, eat away, my little man ; your food is as holy as words of grace can make it." The head and face of the monk, as he sat at the frugal board of the peasant, with his cowl thrown back, was for the first time plainly vi- sible. His forehead was high, and cast in an intellectual mould ; the upper portion expressed dignity and firmness, while the full arched brow indicated a man who thought much and in- tensely ; it was the forehead of a scholar. His eyes were black and piercing ; when animated, they were full of dark fire, but when in repose, tliey were softer than the soft eye of woman. His nose would have been Grecian but for a slight irregularity, perceptible only in profile ; the nostrils were firm, thin, and remarkable for h ,!• te QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. &, i ;. I II 1 t \ t 'I dilating with every emotion. His mouth, when relieved by a sniile, wore an expression of great sweetness ; but then a voluptuous repose dwelt upon his under lip, nearly approaching to sensu- ality : from the flexibility of his lips, chiselled with the accuracy of sculpture, and their habi- tual contradictory expression, the upper being short, thin, and curling with sarcasm, or pressed close to the other with determination, the under, round, full, beautifully formed, and glowing wdth the passion of the voluptuary, his mouth pos- sessed the power of expressing, in the superla- tive degree, every passion with which he was agitated ; it was beautiful or deformed, as love or hate, scorn or pity, ruled there in their turns ; it might have been the fairest feature in the face of an angel, or the most fearful in that of a de- mon. His chin, so far as it was visible, was full, square, and massive, without being heavy ; and the contour of his face was slightly angular rather than oval, to which form it inclined. His hair was dark and abundant ; his com- plexion a pale olive, but somewhat browned by recent and unwonted exposure. His person, so QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 17 far as it could be seen by the habit he wore, was slightly but elegantly formed, and rather below than above the common height. Although redeemed from effeminacy by the firm mouth and chin, the manly and strongly-intellectual forehead, and the unsubdued fire of his flashing eyes, his whole appearance was so youthful, that he did not seem to be more than eighteen years of age, though closer observation would have made him perhaps two or three years older. His address was easy, his language pure and elegant, and his bearing affable and courtly. The honest peasant having terminated his ob- servations on the appearance and manners of his guest, as from time to time he raised his eyes to survey him during the meal, was so struck with his extreme youth (which, united with the beauty of his features and his fine eyes, also made an impression upon the fair Jaquette deeper than she would have been willing Fran- cois should have known), that he at length felt some curiosity to learn the nature of the busi- ness that called so young a priest into that re- mote valley, and especially to the quiet monas- It QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. tery of St. Claude ; but Francois was born a degree north of New England, and suppressed an inquiry having no better object in view than simply the gratification of his curiosity. Wish- ing to hold nevertheless some conversation with his guest, he laid his spoon beside his thrice- emptied dish, and reverently, yet with the frank and ingenuous air, as remote from servility as from forwardness, characteristic of the Canadian peasant, said — " Thou hast eaten full fairly, father ; my homely entertainment is but an ill match for an appetite sharpened on the hills by a north wind, as I wot thine has been." " How know you I am from the hills ?" in- quired the monk, eyeing him fixedly. "I saw thee coming down the southern ridge a full half hour ere I met thee : I took thee for an Indian hunter, till thy long robe, blowing out, showed thee to be a monk. But empty thy cup, father. Jaquetti^, fill his reverence's cup. Nay, 'tis but a mild wine, father, made from the pippin, which we in the valley call the Chaudiere grape ; never better was made in la belle France. I have drunk muscat, burgundy. QUEDEC AND NEW YotlK. 49 and tent, with old Homfroy the porter, a part of the perquisites, as he callt"! it, from his reve- rence's table on holidays, and 1 would not give one round cup of Jaquette's pippin wine for a gross of such as the good fathers drink; St. Peter forgive me if I blaspheme in saying so !" " The pretty Jaquette's wine is doubtless ex- cellent, worthy Francois ; but wine suits neither my constitution nor my habits, which are tem- perate. Accept my thanks for your hospitality, and, if you will, this piece of gold, and then take boat with me, for it is already late, and I have far to travel on the morrow." " Nay, father," replied the peasant, putting aside the hand of his guest, " Francois Benoit never took money from priest for food or fer- riage ; freely thou hast had meat and drink. Leave then thy blessing on my roof, and 1 will place thee on the island in the flap of a heron's wing." " If then, worthy Francois, I may not requite your hospitality," said the monk, as the peasant took his oars from the becket in which they were used to hang along the ceiling, " my little r I if ; .1 u I, ii f I ' iii QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. friend Martin, in consideration of a certain dis- appointment caused by my presence at table, shall take the coin in token of peace between us." As he spoke, he placed the piece of gold in the hands of Martin, bade Jaquette a smiling good night (without repeating the sisterly salu- tation with which he had first met her), and fol- lowed Francois, who with difficulty prevented his shaggy Newfoundland companion from at- tending him towards the beach. The night was clear and piercingly cold ; the stars sparkled like diamonds through the frosty atmosphere, and the earth crackled beneath their feet as they crossed the sward, on which the dew became hoar as fast as it fell. The river glided past with noiseless velocity, reflect- ing the stars in its black transparent bosom with wonderful precision. The skiff, already afloat, was unmoored by Francois, who sprung into it, followed by the monk, and pushed it into the current, the movement producing a slight de- crepitating noise, as if the surface of the river 5 ■< I T A. 1 • i ^ J^^ H«^ QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. m was already glazed with a thin stratum of ice, yet so transparent as to be invisible. " There will be a bridge of ice thrown across the ferry to-night, father," said Francois, bend- ing, as he spoke, to his slender oar. ** If the edge of this sharp frost don't get blunted before morning, a pair of skates, with a proper groove, and deep in the iron, will be better for crossing from island to main, than the best wherry, or for that matter, king's war-ship, that ever sailed the salt sea. Hola! the ice crackles under the bows as if we were cutting through a pane of glass, and the air is as prickly as if it hailed needles. Thou wilt find father Etienne's little closet, where he studies and prays, with its two stoves, a blessed change from this biting air. Methinks thou'rt clothed thinly ; a good bear's hide were worth twice thy robe of broadcloth. Dost not feel the cold, father ?" inquired the talkative Francois of the silent monk, who sat in the stern of the boat, wrapped to the eyes in his cowl and gown, and apparently buried in profound thought. " No, my good friend — that is to say, my t If: n i I! If ;l f n. ' \\ 1 ( ( QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. worthy son," he answered : " the night air is indeed piercing, and my cloth garments but slight protection ; but I am accustomed to ex- posure, although I may not boast your Hercu- lean frame ; neither have I been nursed, like yourself, in the lap of a Canadian winter. The cold increases indeed ! A few more strokes of the oar, Francois, and we shall reach the island." They were now rapidly approaching a light in one of the windows of the tower, and the walls of the monastery, relieved against the sky, became distinctly visible. Shooting into the dark shadow of a huge tree overhanging the wa- ter, they had nearly gained the beach, when a second light appeared in a distant part of the convent, and, at the same time, a single stroke of a bell rung with a dull and startling sound fi-om the tower. " Do you see that light? "What means it, Francois ?" asked the monk, quickly. Francois, who looked one way while he pulled another, rested on his sculls, and, turning his head, looked steadily for an instant in the direc- tion of the convent, and then resuming his oars, ;-#! lOaam ■ai QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. m replied — " That light is in father Etienne's pri- vate chamber, and the bell is a signal for the brotherhood to retire to their cells. 'Twill be a hard matter to get admittance to-night, father. After that light appears in the window, not a cat moves about the convent till morning ; it burns there all night. His reverence is a great student, and it hath been rumoured his head will yet fill a cardinal's red cap. Well, it's a great thing to be a clerkly scholar, to talk Latin and Greek like one's mother tongue ; a;id more blessed to be a holy monk ; and better still to be a cardinal. But then, my old mother — Hea- ven and St. Peter send her soul safe out o' the pains o' purgatory ! — used to tell me, that all these had their troubles, and greater the man greater the sinner. So I am content to remain simple Francois Benoit, husband of Jaquette, and father of four rosy boys and girls, and ferry- man to St. Claude. The Virgin be thanked for all blessings !" Francois devoutly crossed himself as he con- cluded ; and the boat at the same time grating upon the beach, he sprang out and secured it, r I 'W ^ .1 ; H^[ ^1 il'!- / 1 6 lim I i i-i ; QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. saying — **' Here we are, father ; I will see thee safe under old Homfroy's charge, and then hast* en back to Jaquette and the little ones, for the ice will soon get too stiff for my wherry to cut through." They had landed on a gentle slope beneath a large oak, which far overhung the water, and as the monk discovered, directly in front of the principal entrance to the convent. From the imperfect survey of the edifice he was enabled to take, as he followed the rapid strides of the athletic waterman to a wicket constructed in a large double door, or, more properly, gate of the main building, he saw that it was a long quad* rangular structure of brick, much dilapidated, with the ornamental superaddition of an octago- nal tower, surmounted by a cross, rising from the roof at each extremity, both, however, now falling into ruin. The pile was situated in the midst of a lawn, surmounted by a natural park of majestic forest trees, and on the broadest part of the island, which was, nevertheless, at this point so contracted, that there remained only a narrow esplanade between it and the river. It QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 25 was remarkably destitute of any, even the com- monest architectural ornaments, with which tlie gentry and better classes in the province were accustomed at that period to decorate the exte- rior of their dwellings. Altogether, it struck the monk as gloomy and severe in its aspect, and not unsuited to be the abode of men, whose suppos- ed austere and ascetic habits were in keeping with an exterior so forbidding. His observations were at length interrupted by the voice of Francois in altercation with the porter of the convent for admission, while his knuckles, which he made use of to enforce his appeal, rung in the elastic atmosphere, as he struck against the door, like oak ringing upon oak. " Hoh, Homfroy ! Wilt thou not answer ? Open, open ! Wouldst thou have a holy father stand the outer side o' thy gate, in an air that would turn each hair of thy grey beard into an icicle? Open, I say, thou surly old dog, or, by the head of St. Peter, I will break down thy wicket with my oars, and then crack thy sulky pate ! It's a priest, I say — a reverend and holy VOL. I» C m QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. In i ir i 5 monk, who craves admittance. If he don't keep thee back in purgatory a twelvemonth for every minute thou keepest him without, then never trust me. Wilt not unbolt, old greybeard ? Open, I say !" *' Chut st, chut st! good Francois! Have I said I will not open?" cried the old man at length, ill a cracked and deprecating, yet suffi- ciently ill-humoured voice. " I did but stay to don my fur bonnet, and wrap my quilted gown about my old limbs. The rheumatics are very bad on me o' nights now. Misericorde / I can catch my death through a keyhole, and it's a broad door thou wouldst have me open. Thou art over hasty, lad, thou art over hasty." While speaking, he was slowly and reluctant- ly undoing the fastenings on the inner side, and as he concluded, he turned the lock; then shielding his shrinking but well-wrapped person behind the half-opened door, he said hastily — " Enter, father, enter speedily ! Go thy ways, Francois," he added, attempting to close the gate as the peasant was following the monk, " I will not move bar nor bolt to let thee out. Then enter if tliou wilt ; but this night at least, \ QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. «7 :eepthee ' minute ust me. I say !" Have I man at t sufii- stay to I gown e very I can it's a Thou %- ways, the lonk, out. east, thou shalt not sleep in thine own couch ! iMisc- ricorde .'" he groaned, while he busied himseli in securing the door with its heavy chains and bolts, " this doing and undoing of bolts and bars, these changes from a warm snug room to the cold air of these wintry nights, and this handling of cold iron, which sticks to my fin- gers and takes the skin off with it — mon Dieu ! 'twill be the death of me. I'll to father Etiennc this night — yet the passages are somewhat chilly, and it waxes late — but of a surety will I to- morrow, and resign the keys of mine office. If I don't resign while I have the power, grim death will soon deprive me of it." Thus muttering and croaking, the old porter, himself not less grim than the personage to whom he applied this epithet, hobbled back into his domicilium. This was a little room beside the door, where blazed a cheerful fire, before which, on a few coals drawn to the hearth, t. posset-dish was set filled witli a liqidd prepara- tion, which, judging from the pleasant odoui diffused throughout the apartment, was duly sea- I S8 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. ri ': I soiled with spices. A comfortable, well-stuffed armchair stood near it, as if the supervisor of the tempting compound had just deserted it. The monk and his attendant approached the fire, the warmth of which both required : their bodies were cliilled, and their limbs and fea- tures partially benumbed by the intensity of the cold. The old porter resumed his chair, and had become absorbed in the posset-dish and its savoury contents, when the former, having ex- pelled the cold from his limbs, requested him to inform the father Etienne, that a stranger from a distant convent desired to see him on private business of moment. *' Francois," said old Homfroy, without look- ing up, " that huge carcass of tbine is now well- nigh warmed through. Take then this lamp, and go thou and deliver the father's message ; and, peradventurc, thou mayest sleep beneath thine own roof to-night." Francois took up the lamp with a laugh, and left the apartment. After the lapse of several minutes he returned, saying, that the father Etienne desired the stranger shoUifcl be conduct- QUEBEC AND NEW YORK, 29 1-stuffed rvisor of d it. ■ hed the : their md fea- 7 of the air, and and its ing ex- ed him tranger lim on t look- V well- lamp, ssage ; Jneath 1, and everal ather duct- ed to his closet. The monk, who had been tra- versing the porter's lodge with impatient strides during his absence, now followed him with alacrity. He led the way through a long pas- sage paved with rough stones, at the extremity of which, they ascended a narrow staircase to a gal- lery above, lined with chambers or cells, many of them without doors, and all apparently deserted. This gallery terminated in a narrow door, giving admission into the southern tower of the monas- tery. " There is the closet, father, where thou wilt find him thou hast travelled so far to see," said Francois, in a suppressed voice; " knock, and thou wilt find ready admittance. I will down and try my wits against old Homfroy's sullen- ness for a free passage forth ; so I bid thee good-night, father, and crave thy blessing." As he spoke, he removed his bonnet, and bent on one knee reverentially before the priest. " Good night, Francois, and take my blessing, such as it is," said the monk, laying his hand lightly on the head of the suppliant; then abruptly leaying him, he advanced to the ex- 30 '*' , BIX AND WEW YORK. rc'iUy r>i ij o imllevy ar.vl knocked sofrlv at the loor ** Em * . jny soii,"' arc\vcrccl a deep voice ^'ithin. Th? )V(.>ik Hftcv^ t" ' lot"'!, and cnleiing, clo- Fri'U'o*«, all') see".ig p it; !H Ml! 66 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. on th" bank wringing her hands, and surround- ed by her children and neighbours, had subsided into a low wailing. Apprehensive that his aid would arrive too late, he exerted himself to such good purpose, that in a few seconds after leav- ing the land he ar - swiftly alongside of the boat, into which he leaped, with the glad shouts of the spectators on the island ringing in his ears, while a cry of joy from the mainland assured him, that his motions were not un- watched by one who felt no common interest in his success ; and the passing reflection rewarded him for all he had done. Tho boat was firmly bound in the ice, which had been broken up about the bow and stern; but the fragments had again united, and showed that the sufferer had for some time ceased his exertions to extricate himself. Francois, for it was the light-hearted peasant, was seated on the bow-thwart of his boat, with one arm round the neck of his faithful dog, and with his face turned towards his cottage, as if he sought to die with his last look upon his beloved home, his last gaze upon the partner of his bosom and his sweet QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 67 babes — alas ! the home whose threshold he was never to cross more, the wife and babes he was never again to embrace ! The young stranger placed his hand on his heart and temples. The pulse of life had for ever ceased to vibrate ; his eyes were closed ; his head rested upon one shoulder, and his countenance was as calm and peaceful as if he only slept ; he seemed to have passed withoUv pain from the sleep of the living into the deep sleep of the dead. " Can this be death ? so calm, so placid, like one in pleasant and quiet slumber !" thought the young man, as he gazed upon his serene coun- tenance by the clear light of the moon ; " de- sirable, indeed, must be that mode of death which leaves the dead so like the living !" For a few seconds he gazed on the placid face of the dead Francois, lost in these reflections, and forgetting for a moment the circumstances in which he was placed, when a shout from the chevalier, asking if Francois was alive, aroused him. He cast his eyes, without replying, towards the spot where stood Jaquette, awaiting the re- !.■■ 68 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. suit in deathlike silence. Unused to death in any shape, and shocked at the fearful end of his late host, whose lot a brief while before he had compared with his own and envied, he uttered an impatient imprecation against the wretched- ness so profusely mingled in the cup of \i£q ; ami then, overcome with emotion as he thought of the blow about to fall upon the unprotected fa- mily, he remained for several seconds incapable of spea]:ijtg. This tribute to his heart and to human nature ^^as, however, but momentary. " Hola, biave youth !" again shouted the che- valier, '* how fares it with worthy Francois ? Haste with him to the shore, or thou wilt need aid also." '* Francois is well," replied the young officer, evasively. At a loss whether to convey the corpse di- rectly to the island, and, until morning, conceal his death from Jaquette, or at once let her know the full extent of her loss, he briefly considered the two modes, and finally decided on removing him immediately to the shore, and placing the body in her charge. He therefore transferred QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. the corpse, now become rigid as marble^ to the hurdle, and pushed towards the bank. He moved with difficulty, for his body was already pene- trated by the insinuating frost ; his hands were nearly deprived of all sensibility, and an oppres- sive drowsiness, to which he kr ^w it would be fatal to yield, had seized him. As the hurdle touched the bank before her cottage, Jaquette rushed forward, and fell lifeless upon the icy body of her husband. A number of peasants, alarmed by the shout- ing and the ringing of the convent bell, had al- ready collected on the shore ; these he directed to convey the bodj to the cottage. Several fe- males took charge of the insensible Jaquette, and bearing her to her dwelling, carried her into an inner room. The young soldier followed them to the cottage and remained in the outer apartment, where, the evening before, he had supped with the happy family under circumstan- ces so opposite to the present, and superintended the laying out of the body. He gave, in a tone of authority, such directions as the event ren- dered necessary to the neighbours of Francois, QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. who had assembled at the house of mourning, until the room vis filled with a wondering and horror-stricken crc"/0. Although his insti emotions were obeyed with alacrity, they served to draw the attention of the peasants to the speaker, of whose intrepidity several of them had been witnesses. At length he observed that they whispered apart together, and that the eyes of one or two, of rougher ex- terior and more reckless bearing than their fel- lows, were directed towards him with glances of suspicion; at the same moment he discovered that his disguise, which he had hastily resumed on starting from sleep, was disarranged, and that a portion of his military dress and the butt of a pistol, were visible through its folds. He therefore waited for an opportunity to withdraw from the room and cottage unobserved, when, hastening to the shore, he re-crossed the ice, now firm enough to bear his footsteps, and returned to the monastery, where he found the chevalier with his companions congregated in Homfroy's well-warmed room, impatiently await- ing tidings from the shore. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 71 On being once more alone with the chevalier in his closet, he informed him of the death of Francois, and of t^e unlucky exposure of his profes. ion before the peasants, and insisted on taking his leave immediately, as the appearar.ce of an officer disguised as a monk would be food for gossip, and, perhaps, ultimately lead to un- pleasant consequences, particularly if by any means it should be rumoured that an American army was approaching. The chevalier approved of his plan ; and tak- ing from the table the letters he had written during the night, they left the monastery toge- ther, and crossing to the mainland, proceeded towards the cottage of the deceased Francois. " Remain without until I come forth," said the chevalier to his companion, placing his hand upon the latch of the door as he spoke. In a few minutes he came out, followed by an awkward, ungainly clown, stoutly built, with square shoulders, a stolid look, and a skulking air, like that of a whipped schoolboy. He ap- peared to be about twenty-six years of age, and was dressed in the usual garb of his class ; his 72 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. clothes, nevertheless, were much too small for him, and his honuet much too large. " Here is the guide who will direct you to the house of the vicaire Ducosse, ten leagues down the valley, to whom you will bear a letter ; there," added the chevalier, in a lower tone, " you will obtain another guide. The vicaire you may safely trust. Jacques, conduct the reverend father to thy cottage, and with all di- ligence saddle thy two horses, and mount, and, by the mass! see that thou spare ncjither hide nor spur. I have told thee wherefore he travels, and it is a matter on thy conscience that thou doest my bidding ; so haste, and make ready for thy speedy journey. Young sir," he added, ad- dressing the disguised soldier, " I have, for the present, hushed all suspicion among the peasants within the cottage ; all will now depend upon your caution. Here are certain despatches, which I pray you to place with all safety into the hands of the father Guise, who resides at the last post on your route ; you will reach it with hard riding by sunset the day after to-morrow. He will attend to their delivery, according to their seve- it QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 73 ral superscriptions. In this paper you will find directions for your route ; and here is an epistle introductory to brother vicaire Ducosse. Fare- well, my young friend ; God and the saints guide you on your way ! Be wise, and you will be successful. Your guide, Jacques, wno is a mere animal, you may always trust ; his dread of the pains of purgatory, with which, as father Etiennc, I have threatened him, if he be faith- less or lacking in his duty, is a better guarantee for his honesty, than if he were your sworn friend and brother. So good night, for, perad- venture, you are the messenger of a nation's fate." Thus speaking, and warmly grasping his hand, he separated from him and re-entered the cot- tage. The monk, as we shall once more term the disguised soldier, followed his guide at a rapid pace alcag a narrow path which wound by the banks of the river. After a walk of half a mile, they stopped before a cottage, resembling, but less picturesque, that of the unfortunate Francois. '■ VOL. I. P i! I ■ Tii 4 il! )j I u i n rA QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. I'i ** Enter, father, and warm thy limbs by the embers," said the guide, opening its only door, " and I'll get ready the nags." ** I will help you," replied the impatient tra- veller ; " we can both get warm enough by riding ; the sooner we mount and are on our road the better." He followed his guide through a rude gate into a low stable constructed of logs, where stood two small and spirited Canadian horses, of a breed remarkable for their hardihood; they were soon caparisoned and at the door. Before mounting, the peasant entered his cabin, and ex- changed the bonnet he wore for a cap of furs, enveloped his body in a capote of fox skins, and drawing on a i)air of boots, and then a pair of gloves, lined with dog skin, with the fur on the outside, said he was ready to ride ; at the same time he presented the monk with similar gar- ments, as a necessary protection against the seve- rity of the cold. He gladly accepted and en- veloped himself in these comfortable Canadian defences against the rigour of their climate, and drawing his priestly frock over all, mounted and % QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 7.) followed his guide, who, starting off at a gal- lop, rode rapidly in a northernly direction, and along a beaten path which led for many miles beside the banks of the river. CHAP. IV. !'|l The Oath. At daybreak the ensuing morning, the monk and his guide were full five leagues from the monastery of St. Claude, and pursuing their journey at a rapid rate through a dense forest, along a road which led to a hamlet of a few cottages, situated on the eastern bank of tho Chaudiere. As the morning dawned, the cold became more intense, increased by a sharp wind that rose with the sun ; and as the travellers gained the brow of a hill, from which they ■■■'- /■ ■ , , • E 2 70 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK, caught a view of the distant hamlet, it became? so severe, that its effect upon any portion of the skin exposed to its penetrating influence, was like that of fire. The cautious guide was so completely enve- loped in his furs, that there remained scarcely a crevice for his vision, choosing rather that the animal he rode should be left to his own instinct for pursuing the path, than that his per- son should suffer by needless exposure. The monk, incautious, and evidently less ex- perienced in the severities of a Canadian winter, as they descended the hill, lifted his visor to survey the far-extended prospect of wood, vale, and river, before him. He immediately cried out with pain, experiencing, as the piercing wind touched his cheek and forehead, a burning sensation, as if his skin had been exposed to the hot blast of a sirocco. Following the example of his guide, he enveloped his face in the furs, repeating the language of Milton, in describing the abode of Satan — " The parcbing air Burns frore (frozen), and cold performs the effect of fire," QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 77 " The hamlet thou didst see from the hill aback be where we'll get fresh nags," growled the guide through his furred hood, as they reached the plain on which the hamlet was situated, and were riding along under the pro- tection of the forest. Not receiving any an- swer, he rode to tht side of the monk, who had kept in advance, and continued, in the tone of one who wished to be co^-panionable — " By St, Claude o' the island ! a re and a cup o' wine would be none the worse for thee or I. Faith, sir, my voice sticks to my jawsP' " Vox faucibus hoesif,^* said the monk in re- ply ; " this frost makes your speech classical, Jacques ; and that too, without the knowledge of your wits, I'll be sworn ! But Virgil was a peasant like yourseli^ and why may not the same base earth that has once yielded gold, yield gold again ?" " Anan, father !" slowly responded the stolid peasant, " I know not what thou sayest, tho' an' thou do speak about this here land, then I can tell 'un never better soil was ploughed than be in this plain. But, most worshipful, Tse not r.i, .1 ■ 78 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK . over wise in holy things ; and by thy leave, as thou didst but now swear by thyself, may I ask 'un if or no it be a deadly sin, worthy o' pur- gatory, to make oath by one's self? not that thou canst so sin, holy father, or the church vicaires ; no, the saints forbid ! It were a good thing to be a savoury priest, and swear betimes. Save us \ the godly father Etienne rippeth out oatlis on occasion like a very Turk. Canst tell me, most worshipful, if't be a deadly sin or no?" ** What may be your especial motive, honest Jacques, in seeking to be instructed in so weigh- ty a matter?" asked the monk, gravely. " Hark ye, holy priest," answered Jacques, in a lower voice, whipping up his jaded steed, and riding closer to the monk's ear, " I would give the best sheep, save the old wether, o' the last year's droppin', and a fat gobbler to boot, to roast for thy Christmas dinner, if thou wouldst give me dispensation to swear roundly by my beard, without the fear o* the pains o' purgatory." ** Ha, Jacques, is it so ? I fear the devil is tempting thee to sin," said the monk, solemnly ; QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 79 " thou need'st, rather, that I should, appoint fasts and penance for the good of thy soul." " Na, na, seven thousand saints forbid!" he answered, hastily, and devoutly crossing him- self; " but it were a brave circumstance to swear stoutly when one is with his mates. Wilt take the sheep and fat gobbler, father ?" " Alas, my son ! wouldst thou corrupt the /< irch ? Thy speech savoureth of mammon. Surely Beelzebub hath possessed thee !" " Hout, na, most worshipful! but 'tis just thus," responded Jacques, with more animation than he had yet evinced : " I go to mass every Sabbath-day, keep saints' day, and holy day, pay my tithe of grain, like a seigneur, to the vicaires (saving hay and potatoes, which holy church asketh not), confess on new-year's eve, as I hope to do the next one, with help o' the good Vir- gin, nor do I take oath, save by St. Claude^ or the Virgin, or the saints, and such like holy and worshipful oaths, 'gainst which there can be found no scripture, saith porter Homfroy, who is learned in holy things, though there be a commandment, he hath told me, 'gainst for- ii 80 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. swearing by one's-self, or the hairs of one's heard. It were a brave oath for a proper man, father, this swearing by one's beard." " Thou sayest well, Jacques; 'twere a most valiant oath — a gallant, and withal a fierce oath. But wherefore, save it in fitness for thy man- hood, wouldst thou fortify thy speech by an oath so truculent ?" " Methinks, most worshipful, if I could swear stoutly by my beard, when I get back among my mates, they'll no longer let me keep i' the cor- ner, or shove me out o' the way, as if I be not a human being, and a lad o' mettle, like that loud- swearing Luc Giles, who swears iy nis beard like a trooper, or even a worshipfu nriest, bidding me do this and bidding me do that with a ripping oath, that makes the blood run cold to my fingers' ends ; and maybe, if I am not quick enough to suit his humour, comes a knock on the head, and he but a ploughman like my- self ; but it comes of swearing by his beard — so fearful 'tis to. hear him, father!" *' But if there be such valiancy in this oath thou speakest of, worthy Jacques," observed the QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. it monk, " what should hinder thee from using a weapon thou hast seen so formidable in the mouths of others ? Trust me, Jacques, that fellow's courage lieth altogether in his beard, as thou hast heard the strength of Samson did in his hair." " By St. Claude, most worshipful," replied Jacques, with more confidence in his tone, " thou sayest truly. I would," he added, looking on all sides cautiously, and lowering his voice, " I would not be afraid to make oath he had a chicken's liver. Wilt give me dispensation, father ?" *' Why ask it, my son ? I don't believe this same Luc Giles hath received it." " He !" exclaimed Jacques, in a tone of con- tempt, " not unless he got it from the devil ; he is devil-born, father, fearing neither God nor man, and mocks at holy things. He did only yesterday say," continued Jacques, crossing him- self with holy horror, " that there was no part of the true cross to be found, and that if all the pieces said to be of the true cross were put to- e3 li I '» ! 'i '■ . \ >. 41^^^ \ o l\ ss QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. I i trotted off followed by Jacques, "he must be the holy pope himself, to give good silver with such a free hand ; it's not the way o* the ordinary fathers IVe met with in my day. I've lived threescore years and better, kept open hostel fourteen o' em come Christmas, and never till now did I see the colour of priest's coin ; by the same token, they have often seen the colour o' mine. Well, 'tis good ringing silver," she con- cluded, dropping it on the stone step of the door before closing it, " and I'll keep it for luck." The monk and his attendant mounted on fresh horses, now rode rapidly forward, their road still winding along the banks of the Chau- diere, which were bordered for many miles with larches, oaks, sycamores, elms, and cedars, some of them of immense size, and many retaining their dark mantles of evergreen, of which even winter could not rob them. Others, stripped of their summer foliage, flung abroad their scraggy and unsightly limbs, striking emblems of that desolation which winter, like an exulting con- queror, spreads over the smiling face of nature. The region through which they rode was diver- QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 89 sified by extensive pasture lands and well-stocked farms in a high state of cultivation ; and as they proceeded, it became more populous. Here and there a church tower rose in the distance, ham- lets and farm houses became more frequent, aiid on all sides the characteristic signs of a populous country were visible. The scenery constantly varied in its character, and often called forth ex- pressions of admiration from the traveller, who frequently paused, breathing his horse the while, to gaze upon its sublime or picturesque features. At one time, the perspective combinations of the view changing with every mile they ad- vanced, they wound through a deep gorge, worn by the river, here too wild and unruly to be con- fined by the grasp of winter, and pouring with velocity through its contracted bed, its surface broken into numerous cascades ; at another time they skirted the base of lofty cliffs, wooded to their summits, and towering in savage gran- deur above their heads ; at another they ambled through a pleasant lane, bordered by fruit trees, with the white cottage of the hahitans dispersed at intervals along their route ; and now they tra- i 1 m 90 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. versed a narrow dell shut in by hills cultivated to their tops, or some secluded vale, in which contentment and domestic peace seemed to have taken up their abode. The river, raging among rocks or tumbling in cascades, wild with over- hanging cliffs, or embellished with beautiful islands, was a feature in every change of the pa- norama ; even where its placid course was ar- rested, as it meandered through some interval, by the frost of the preceding night, its surface was as transparent as when, bearing the breast of the wild fowl or the skiff of the fisherman, it glided along between banks of summer foliage. About an hour before noon, without having met with any obstacle or seen scarcely a human being, save occasionally a hucheron cleaving his winter's fuel in the forest, a few peasants la- bouring on their farms, a female or a group of children peeping through the window; f the closely-shut cabins, they arrived ir sit,.;*, of a stone house situated on the side of a hill facing the south. " Yon be my journey's end, father," said Jacques, pointing to the habitation, " tho' if *t QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 91 be thine or no, thy worshipful wisdom knoweth best. By my beard, father, the nags smell the fodder, and move brisker the latter end o* the way than at the outset !" Indeed, the horses, with characteristic instinct, seemed to be equally aware with Jacques, that they were approaching their journey's end, or at least a baiting-place ; for when the house ap- peared in sight they pricked up their ears, and set off at a vigorous pace, which they kept up until they arrived at the place of their destina- tion. The house before which the wearied tra- vellers drew up was a square stone edifice, two stories high, with a single wing, and surrounded by a pijazza. A light portico protected the front entrance in winter, and shaded it in summer. It was separated from the road by a court, and accessible by a gravelled walk bordered by young evergreens, among which were the pine, hem- lock, and hackamatack, or red larch. Dismounting at the gateway of the court-yard, the traveller approached the dwelling, leaving the horses in charge of Jacques. Ascending the portico, he knocked at the door with a good 92 QUEBEC AND KEW YORK. will, to which his half-frozen condition and im- patience of delay contributed not a little. His summons was answered by the creaking of a bolt, and the next moment the appearance of a middle-aged man in the open door ; he was at- tired in a dress half clerical, half laical, such as Catholic priests are wont to wear in their own houses. His visage was thin and cadaverous, and his frame large and bony ; his countenance wore a mild and benevolent, yet indolent ex- pression, while a twinkling grey eye beneath shaggy brows betrayed humour and intelli- gence. ** Benedicite!" he said, saluting the monk with grave politeness; " enter, brother, and share our genial fire, for that, I see, thou need'st most; meanwhile," he added, with the ready hospitality of the Canadian clergy, " I'll have thee food prepared, and see thy beasts safely housed. 'Tis a bitter day to be abroad. Winter hath come upon us manibus pedibusque, as the Latin hath it, which is to say, with tooth and nail ; but it becometh me not to paraphrase the tongues to thee, erudite brother, albeit the habit QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 93 of holding converse daily with the specimen of Eve's kind, who ruleth my domestic matters, leadeth me to do it oftentimes incontinently; but, scite ac rrmnditer condit cibos, sayeth Plau- tus, which, in the vernacular, signifieth that she is a good cook. Her skill thou shalt try anon, as I perceive she hath already spread the board for the meridian repast." " Reverend and learned cure," replied the monk, whom, while he was speaking, the host had ushered into a well-heated room, the agree- able temperature of which was preserved by a large fire blazing in the chimney, and a stove placed in the centre, " I honour the wisdom of your selection in so nice and difficult a matter as the choice of a cook, or coquus, as much as I respect your learning. While I do justice to her culinary talents, which, I doubt not, do infinite credit to your judgment, I will acquaint you with the cause of my intrusion into your domi- cilium." The monk, who had intuitively caught and chimed in with the humour of his host during the progress of the meal, which, in passing, be '^ i t i 94 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. \ it remarked, was in every respect unexception- able, related to him so much of his object as was necessary to insure his co-operation and present aid in forwarding him in security on his way ; this was further insured through the in- fluence of the chevalier's letter, which he at the same time gave him. " Mehercule ! worthy juvenis, or youth," ex- claimed the cure, when he had completed the per- usal of the letter, *' thou hast begun young to go forth to the wars. But St. David slew Goliath — thou know'st the Vulgate, I doubt not, wherein the story is related at length ? — and thy years, peradventure, may likewise do honour to the valiant man of war who sent thee on this perilous message. But, touching this epistle from brother Etienne," he said, looking over the letter once more, and then carefully folding it up, " I reply in the words of TuUius Cicero, ' Dum lego, assentior.' Thou shalt be forwarded on thy journey forthwith, for the business thou hast in hand requireth diligence. The saints bring about that for which I long have wearied them, even the restoration of our church's dig- QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. nity and power in the land, and among the ru- lers thereof. But thou wilt not ride now, my son," he said, seeing his guest rise from the ta- ble, and prepare to resume his travelling apparel ; '' all too soon, all too soon after eating. * Post prandium stabis, Post ccen 'nmbulabis,' • ; saith the school rhyme, which, in the vernacular, hath been rendered, ' After dinner sleep awhile, After supper walk a mile.* Verily, young cavalier, or brother — for thou art the one or the other — as I look either on thy quick eye and gallant bearing, or upon the cowl and gown, which, I cannot but observe, thou wearest after an ill and awkward fashion, I fear it is a scandal for the church's vestments to be put to such unseemly uses," he continued, sighing, and crossing himself with the wing of a chicken, with which his teeth had been busy while he was speaking. " Verily, thou must not leave me yet," he added, wiping his lips with a napkin, and pledging his guest in a cup of mild - QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. wine ; " I will first teach thee the scientia po- pintBf or the art of concocting savoury messes, known and esteemed by the ancients, as thou mayst learn on reference " " Pardon me, learned cure," interrupted the monk, enveloping his head, as he spoke, in his fur bonnet, ** I would gladly be your pupil in this honourable science, seeing that the generous repast I have but now partaken of bears testi- mony to its utility ; but, if it be possible, I must be on horseback within the hour, as my next post is twelve leagues off, and I desire to be there before morning ; therefore, father, you cannot better please me, or aid the cause you have at heart more, than by forwarding me on my journey at once. A fleet horse and a trusty guide were more acceptable than an abbot's feast." " Thou shalt have both, Deo volente, my son," said the cure, promptly, his naturally indolent mind receiving impetus from the spirit of the youth, and 'aying his knife and fork down on his plate with a sigh, he rose and left the room. In a short time he returned, and said — " I have QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. Vf saddled my own equuSf or steed, for thee, my son, and sent to a worthy dame, one of my pa- rishioners, to borrow another, a beast, though of less comeliness of form, of equal mettle ; him the good woman's son will ride. The boy is but an untamed cub, and will exercise thy patience; nathless, he will conduct thee to the convent of St. Therese, from which place thou wilt obtain another guide to the St. Lawrence." In the course of half an hour, the lad destined to take the place of Jacques, who, be it here re- corded, had feasted sumptuously with the ** co- quus, or cook," came into the room. He was about fifteen years of age, remarkably small in stature, with a snub nose, given to upturning, lively, twinkling, mischievous grey eyes, one of which was marvellously asquint, straight yellow hair, and a red freckled face, the expression of which was mingled intelligence and cunning. His manners were forward, and indicated self- possession above his years. He was rolled up in fur tippets and muffs till he appeared as broad as he was long. He entered the room whisking VOL. I. IT QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. his riding-switch about, and without doffing his fur bonnet, which was made of a fox skin, with the brush hanging down his back, in a shrill voice, and with a swaggering air, looking from a corner of his eye at the monk, he addressed the cure. — " This, then, be the priest, father Due, I'm to ride with to St. Therese ? The devil help me, if he gabble as much Latin as thou, father, there will be but little wit spoken on the road !" ' . ** Chut St, chut st, Zacharie Nicolet, with thy malapert tongue ! thou art but a young pup to bark so fiercely," cried the cure, forgetting his Latin in his displeasure. *' And thou art a toothless hound, which can neither bark nor bite," retorted the lad, with spirit. . * • " Habet salem ! the lad hath the true Attic on his tongue," said the good-natured cure, whose anger was never very durable, at the same time turning round to the monk, and nodding with a smile of approbation ; " if I could have him aneath my thumb awhile, to teach him the humanities and the golden tongues, he might. QUEBFX AND NEW YORK. 99 peradventure, do honour to my instructions ; as it is, he is, I opine, but game for the gallows." Zacharie, who did not relish this speech, was about to reply with some pertness, when the monk, fixing upon him his piercing eyes with a steady gaze, until he quailed beneath them, said sternly — " A truce, boy, to this rudeness, and know bet- ter the respect due to age. If you are to be my guide to St. Therese, mount and ride ; and if that saucy tongue be not more civil on the way, you will find you have to deal with a hound, to use your own figure, which can both bark and bite." The boy, whose natural acuteness of observa- tion led him to estimate properly the ludicrous points in the character of the simple-minded cure, although incapable of appreciating, at the same time, the excellent qualities of his head and heart, had wit enough to know, from his stern eye and voice, that the stranger was a man of different metal, and that he might, perchance, endanger his personal comfort by presuming to triHe with him. He, therefore, left the room f2 100 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. somewhat crest-fallen, and mounting his horse at the gate, awaited the appearance of the monk, who remained behind to reward the services of the faithful Jacques, bargain with him for the purchase of the furs he had loaned him, and at his request, bestow upon him his parting bless- ing, confirming with it in full the grant of dis- pensation for which he had petitioned on the journey. " Thou'lt see, most worshipful,' said Jacques, stroking his chin, and looking straightforward with a fierce aspect, " when next thou comest our way, how bravely I'll swear by my beard. T shall not sleep the night for thinking on't. If Luc Giles don't take his fish to another market, then call me jack-fool. So good e'en to you, father," he continued, lifting his bonnet as the monk mounted his horse, " and the saints send ye on the way to the worshipful pope ere he die. It would be an awful circumstance for the great pope to die in his sins !" he added, de- voutly crossing himself. *' God assoilzie him!" ejaculated the pious QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 101 cure mechanically, without any very definite in- telligence whom his prayers were to benefit. " Father," added Jacques, while assisting the traveller to adjust his stirrups, and covering his feet with the fur of his capote, " keep a tight rein on thy mare, and a tighter one on that Satan's brat, Zacharie Nicol. If thou wouldst keep him in his place, swear roundly at him by thy beard, or by mine own, an' thou likest, see- ing thine is but young, and he will keep in his proper paces, I'll warrant me. But, most wor- shipful," he added, in a low tone of voice, taking the rein of the monk's horse as he was about to ride off, " give not Nick the dispensation for " ** What art thou nicking at there in the fa- ther's ear, thou long-eared ass? I'll switch thy beardless chaps for thee if thou hinder the priest's journey," shouted the boy, whose quick ears caught this sacrilegious abbreviation of his name. The confounded ex-guide immediately released his grasp on the bridle, while the monk, bidding farewell to him and his reverend host, rode briskly forward past his youthful Mercury, who, 102 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. before galloping after him, turned his body half round ii the saddle, and shook his whip at the cure, crying, in his peculiarly shrill voice — " If thou wilt have a scholar to teach thy Latin to, father Due, thou hast an ass standing beside thee whom thou mayst teach the tongues, as asses have been taught to speak ere now." " Profane and thankless adolescentulus" ejacu- lated the cure, looking after the boy for an in- stant, with mingled astonishment and indigna- tion, ** ita verier e seria ludo, the which mean- eth," he added, turning to the no less shocked Jacques, whom he surveyed closely for an in- stant, as if the hint of the departing Zacharie had not been altogether lost, and he was esti- mating his capabilities for receiving the honours which the lad had so unaccountably despised, ** which meaneth, my son, the making a jest of sacred things." " By my beard !" swore Jacques, after the form of his successor had fairly disappeared in a winding of the road, " if I had the limb o' Beelzebub by the nape o' the neck, an' I wouldn't make him think Luc Giles's claws QUEBEC NEW YORK. 103 griped his weasand, may I never more make oath by my beard !" Thus delivering himself of his indignation, Jacques followed the cure into his dwelling, where we shall, for the present, leave him, either to be duly inducted into the rudiments of the humanities by the learned priest, or into the elements of cookery by the specimen of mother Eve he retained in his household, as the mental or physical propensities of the pupil should pre- dominate. CHAP. V. The Storm, The traveller and his new guide had not mea- sured three leagues from the hospitable mansion of father Ducosse, before the short di^rf of the season closed. The sun, leaving behind a lurid 104 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. glow, went down in a thick bank of clouds, and the general aspect of nature foreboded a storm. The approach of night, however, did not hinder their journey ; but moving forward at a round pace, they only stopped to breathe and bait their horses at the infrequent inns along their route, if a lonely peasant's cottage, whose inmates, from hospitality rather than for lucre, received and entertained the few travellers who chanced to pass that way, can be so denominated. Towards midnight the air became milder, and the stars, which hitherto had lighted them on their way, began to fade gradually from the sky, as a thin white haze spread over it like a veil of gauze. The moon at length rose through a dense atmosphere, and soon after the whole hea- vens became white with a thick vapour, which totally obscured her disk, but without sensibly increasing the darkness of the night. Dark clouds along the horizon at length began to ascend to- wards the zenith, and the winds to sigh through the forests. On observing these increasing indi- cations of a gathering tempest, the monk urged forward his horse, and called to his guide, who QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 103 lagged behind amusing himself by striking at the branches above his head, to make better speed. " If you use your whip, Zacharie, on your pony's back, it will be more to the purpose than your present pastime. How far now to the con- vent St. Therese ?" he asked. " A league and a leap, father. But why dost thou not call me * son' instead of Zacharie ? You noly fathers are ever soning it, as if you'd make up for your own lacking therein, by fathering every beggar's brat in the land. By my mother's honesty, 'tis a wise son knows his own father, when so many holy fathers call him * son,' and ' my son !" " You speak not unadvisedly, Zacharie, and 'tis lest such relationship should be fastened on me, that I omit, in your particular case, this fonn of speech." " Thou hast more wisdom than I gave thy cloth credit for, father," replied the boy, at the same time, instigated by his restless spirit, mak- ing his horse caricole until he made a demivolt f3 i i^ ) I 106 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. across the road against the monk, in a manner that would have sent him from his saddle to the ground, if he had been an indifferent horse- man, the catastrophe which was no doubt an- ticipated by the mischievous urchin. " So, so, Paul, so, so !" he began, apologe- tically soothing the animal, " hast thou no bet- ter manners than to thrust thy buttocks 'gainst a holy monk ? By my grandmother's spectacles, thou shalt suffer purgatory unless thou mend thy manners ! Oh, ciel ! ouf !" he suddenly cried out with pain, as the monk's riding-whip came in contact with his face ; " ai ! ah ! thou canst use a switch, father, as well as rosary. Malheur ! Thou hast made the fire fly out o' the eyes o' me, father," he added, in a tone that had lost a large portion of its assurance, and riding cau- tiously beyond reach of the monk's whip, " as if they had been flints, and thy switch a steel blade." » _ " Then husband your tricks to practise on less hasty travellers, Zacharie. Here is salve to anoint your eyes," he added, good-humouredly, and giving him a piece of money. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 107 " Callest thou this salve ?" said Zacharie, thrusting the half-crown into his cheek ; " if I had eyes over my body as thick as a peacock has on his tail, thou mightest have leave to switch away at them, one at a time, if thou wouldst heal them again with such ointment." " I believe you, honest Zacharie; for once in your life, I'll be sworn you have spoken truth ! But, forward : we must get under cover before this storm comes on. How say you, a league farther?" " A league from that wheezing rheumatic bridge we crossed ere thou gavest me that ready cut across the blinkers. I tell thee, I like thee better for a blow given in right good-will, when on just provocation, which I will not say thou hadst not, than if thou didst mumble prayers in thy hood for my soul's benefit, as if I were a born heathen, as some monks I've seen woulrl do, or fling hard Latin at my head like father Due. Were I a man, I would like to try switches with thee, ay, and steel, didst thou carry such ungodly gear beneath thy monk's habit." 108 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK* I " What do you mean, boy?" inquired the monk, hastily wrapping his gown closer about his person, and riding nearer his guide. " I mean, father," replied Zacharie, edging farther off, and shaking his head mysteriously, ** that I spied the hilt of a sword, and the gleam of something like pistol-butts, peeping aneath thy gown, when thy fingers were searching for that ointment thou gavest me." " Nay, boy, it was but my rosary and silver crucifix you saw," said the monk, drawing from his bosom and exhibiting, by the faint light, these inbignia of his apparent profession ; ** these are our spiritual sword and pistol, my son, with which we combat the arts of the devil." " The devil combat me, then," said the boy, incredulously, " if I am fool enough to mistake the arms of a brave soldier for those of a craven monk ! But thou knowest best, father," he added, dryly. • -; .; : .: For the next five minutes he busily occupied himself in switching the ears of his nag, and ap- peared to liave quite forgotten the subject ; and the monk, adopting the wisest course to put to si g QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 109 sleep any suspicion that he might entertain, dan- gerous either to his safety or the success of his mission, ceased to speak any farther upon it. He determined, however, to watch him closely on his arrival at the convent, lest he might be- tray the secret of his disguise, for he was con- vinced that the Ijoy felt satisfied he had not been deceived, although he might pretend to ad- mit the explanation given him.. The atmosphere continued to thicken above their heads, and the night grew sensibly darker every moment. The first approaches of the long-brewing storm were at length manifested by the occasional falling of a crystal of snow, which rapidly increased in size artd numbers, till the air was filled with multitudinous flakes, whitening as they fell, their shaggy garments, their horses, the branches of the trees, and the path before them. In a few minates the sur- face of the ground was perfectly wliite, and the wind dying away, the snow fell in a heavy noiseless shower, and soon nearly obliterated all traces of their path. Fearing they should lose ,it altogether, they galloped forward, and amid a s 110 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. genuine Canadian ^now-stornii which would have rendered it difficult, if not impossible, to pro- ceed much farther through the forest, every ves- tige of which the snow was momently erasing, while it bewildered them by confusing and ob- scuring every object, they arrived at the place of their destination on the brow of a hill over- hanging the river. The convent of St. Therese, into which we are about to introduce the reader, was a retreat erected by one of the religious communities of the capital, as a place of safety or security during the heat of summer, the prevalence of an epidemic, the dangers of war, or any event which might render a residence in the city in- secure or inconvenient. It was, as the travel- lers discovered on getting close to it, a quadran- gular edifice of brick, one story in height, with a single square tower rising from the centre, and surrounded by a low brick wall, enclosing a lawn ornamented with forest trees. It was situated on the summit of a cliff rising boldly from the river, and at the southern extremity of a gorge a mile in length, through which, at a QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. Ill profound depth, the river furiously raged over a rocky bed. Opposite the convent, separated from it by the river, rose lofty hills covered with forests, with the jagged face of a rock protrud- ing here and there from their sides. This site was chosen rather for the romantic features of the surrounding scenery, than for its capabilities of defence, in case of hostile attack ; yet diffi- cult of access, and commanding the only road leading through the defile, it was equally suited either for a religious retirement, or a military fortress. The monastic community was compos- ed, at the time of our traveller's visit, of four or five religieuses professees, several novices, the lady superior, and a father confessor. ** Here, father," said Zacharie, as they drew up their weary horses before a gate placed in the wall surrounding the convent, " here thou'lt find those that wear the gown as well as thou, and carry sharper weapons than that crucifix thou tellest of." *' How mean you, sir Wisdom ?" carelessly asked the monk, dismounting as he spoke, and lifting a heavy knocker, which he applied seve- i i 112 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. I'll I'.'l ral times loudly to the solid panel of the gate to which it was affixed. ** Dost not know then ? but how shouldst thou know what I mean, being a monk," said the boy, with a touch of irony in his voice. " I speak of the demoiselles, whose tongues and eyes are sharper than the two-edged sword father Due preaches about. Ciel! if thou couldst hear my old dam's clapper go at times, thou wouldst say ne'er convent bell rung louder, or sword cut sharper. Mercie ! I never see a pet- ticoat but I plug my ears. Hearest thou not their chattering even now? That knocker in thy hand has set them to cawing, as I've heard a roost of crows when I chanced to send a rook among them." " Hush, boy, your tongue would out woman them all!" said the monk; then grasping his arm, as he stood beside him near the gate, he added, sternly — " While within these walls, if wise, you will keep your tongue closely within your teeth, or you will feel a heavier weight than that of my riding-switch." As he spoke, a light appeared in a window of the convent, and I QUEBEC AND NEW YOkK. 113 an individual, thrusting his head forth, dc ired to know who disturbed the repose of the inmates at an hour so untimely. " A black sheep o' thine own flock, father Bonaventure," shouted Zacharie, in reply, adding in a lower voice, ** but I tliink he be a wolf in sheep's clothing." " Boy," said the monk, in a decided tone, " I perceive you are aware that I am not what I seem. Beneath your assumed levity you have a sufficient share of good sense, which now may be of service to you. I have here, as you rightly guessed," he continued, placing his hand on his sword, " what will at once release me from all fear of betrayal. But do not start back. You have no cause for alann : I shall not harm a hair olyour head. I will do better — trust to your generosity for preserving the secret you possess ! Have I mistaken my man ?" lie added, in a tone of frank and manly confidence, which, with his language, made its intended impression on Za- charie, who, with his reckless and mischievous nature, possessed a generous spirit and certain inborn sentiments of honour, rude though they 114 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. were, and hidden under a heedless exterior, often allied to such wild and dauntless charac- ters as his; and the attitude assumed by the monk at this crisis, not only furnished a proof of his knowledge of human nature, but did ho- nour to his heart. " No, thou hast not mistaken me," replied the boy, firmly, and with a respectful courtesy in his voice and manner that surprised the monk ; and then adding, in something like his usual man- ner, " be thou priest or soldier, monk or devil, I would not now betray thee. None shall know from me thou art other than a mumbling friar, with a beard a full yard long, hollow eyes, bony cheeks, and withered to a 'natomy. Tliat thou earnest only rosary and crucifix, I will take my gospel oath. Father Due," he continued, in his usual manner, " should have trusted me ; but he thinks me either a fool or a knave, or both ; but, for that matter, I never had but little re- putation for aught except evil. Thou art the first man that ever saw in me other than the horned devil himself. How thou shouldst know me in one night's ride better than the old wo- QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 115 men, priests, and habitans, I've lived with all my life, is odd encugh. But thou hast not mis- placed thy confidence ; and, for treating me like a reasonable being, as thou hast done, instead of doing thee an injur}', I would fight for thee against my mother. But one thing I will frankly tell thee, father," he said, in a low tone, as a man with a lantern crossed the lawn to the gate, " that if thou hadst not placed this confidence in me, but had sought by threats and offers of violence to insure my secrecy, then thou shouldst have swung for it after, if, as I believe, thou art a spy." " Is it a brother who craves our hospitality this wintry night ?" asked, in a sonorous drawl- ing voice, a corpulent person, in cowl and gown hastily thrown on awry, peering as he spoke between the bars of the gate, and thrusting the lamp through the interstices to his elbow, to examine the travellers more nearly, although their persons, wrapped in furs and whitened with a thick coat of the still-falling snow, were scarcely distinguishable, and resembled to the vision of the fat priest, shaggy polar bears 116 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. standing upright on their hind legs as much as men. Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, he be- gan with great deliberation to unlock and dis- engage the padlock from the bars which cross- ed and firmly secured the double leaves of the gate, and admitted the travellers and their hor- ses. After closing the gate, he conducted the latter to a range of brick stalls standing not far from it ; and then leaving Zacharie to attend to the comfort of the animals, he led the way, with a sort of limping gait, across the court to the door of the convent. — " The snow hath some- what mollified the air, brother," he said, as they arrived at the door, *' yet a warm brand may not be amiss ; so I bade sister Agathe, as I came forth to admit thee, to rake open the em- bers in the refectory ; thither I will lead thee. Crooked sticks make even fire ; therefore will sister Agathe's labours soon expel the cold from thy limbs." So saying, he preceded the traveller through the door, and entered a narrow passage, turning abruptly to the left; at the opposite extremity was an open door, through which they passed QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 117 into a large apartment totally dark, — " When the candles are out all cats are grey," said the confessor, punching his guest familiarly in the ribs. At the farther end of the room was a huge fire-place, in which, upon a pile of smoking wood, lay a few coals, the glare of which, as they were at intervals blown up by the asthmatic breath of an aged female, who, with a religious habit flung in rude dishabille over her shoulders, was on her hands and knees before it, served, in conjunction with the faint light of the lantern held by the host, to increase the cheerless gloom of the large apartment, instead of dissi- pating the darkness. " Sister Agathe," said the priest, or father confessor, as more correctly he should be deno- minated, " thou hast but a cold fire for cold travellers." " Rome was not built in a day," growled the old crone. " Neither," he added, with some severity, " ijow that I view thee more closely, is thy at- tire becoming the presence of strangers. Hie V M 118 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. ill thee to thy cell, woman, and complete thy toi- let, and then see that couches are prepared in the guest's lodge. I myself will take thy place at the hearth." " Let not thy tongue cut thy throat," retort- ed the woman, with asperity, as she shuffled out of the room. " A fool's bolt is soon shot," rejoined father Bonaventure, as she departed. A bright blaze soon rewarded him for the un- usual and lavish expenditure of wind from his capacious lungs. After the traveller and Zacha- rie, who had returned from the stable, and was fast asleep on the hearth, had sufficiently par- taken of its genial heat, the former proceeded to make known his errand to his host. " You are, worthy father," he said, suddenly turning, and bending his eyes full upon him, " a good Catholic, and have the welfare of church and state at heart, I trust ?" " Heaven forbid it should be otherwise, bro- ther," answered the priest with quickness, suspi- ciously eying his guest from the comer of one eye as he sat beside him. Then crossing his \'i I I QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 119 fat hands over his puncheon-like person, while he twirled his thumbs, as if perplexed at the question, he asked — '* Why, why puttest thou such a query to me, brother ?" " Are you well affected towards the present government, father?" interrogated the monk, without appearing to regard his question. Father Bonaventure hitched his person along the bench, and eyed the monk from head to feet, as if he expected to see horns, or a hoof at the very least, while his features were agi- tated by a complex expression of mingled dis- trust and confidence. The former sentiment at length predominated, and with a voice and man- ner, partly the effect of his fears and suspicions, and partly assumed as a feeler to fathom the purpose of his interrogator without politically committing himself, he said — " Avoid thee, Sathanas ! wouldst thou ensnare me to my own hurt r " Not so, father," replied the monk, smiling, and at once comprehending the ruse. " I am the bearer of weighty news from father Etienne, whom I left last night ; his name should be a n 120 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. i H key to confidence between us. I touched your pulse with a question or two, good father, for my own private satisfaction, before I opened my business." " Verily, thou didst somewhat alarm me," replied father Bonaventure, drawing a long breath, as if a great weight had suddenly fallen from his breast ; " I thought thee an inquisitor of government, and, as I have been of late somewhat given to insurgent speech and opinions, I feared the worst; yea, verily, * the guilty fleeth when no man pursueth.* Thou bearest with thee, brother, doubtless,* some writing or token that I may confer with thee in safety touching the matter which thou wouldst open to me ?" ** I do. It is — the chevalier De Levi l" ** Then thou art doubly welcome," said father Bonaventure, moving back to his former place near his guest, and warmly grasping his hand. AH distrust instantly disappeared from his jocund, physiognomy, and was replaced by an air of profound mystery, nowise diminished by the significant application, as he looked at his guest, QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. lit of the fore finger of his left hand to the side of a nose of the most formidable dimensions. After a long conference in relation to the ex- pected invasion, the monk, not having thought it prudent to undeceive his host in the opinion he entertained of his sacerdotal character, was conducted by him to a comfortable and well- furnished cell in a distant part of the convent. On taking leave of him for the night, and com- mending him to the protection of St. Therese, the father assured him that he should be fur- nished in the morning with a guide and a carriole, for the snow would render such a mode of tra- velling necessary, to convey him to the St. Lawrence. VOL. I. I: I I , 122 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. CHAP. VI. The Matins. The ensuing morning our traveller was roused from his short repose by the loud tolling of the convent bell for matins, and the voice of father Bonaventure at the outside of the door of his dormitory. — " "Wilt thou not up to morning prayer, brother? I will attend thee to our little oratory, where we are wont to commence the duties of the day with orisons." " I thank you, brother, for so carefully watching over my spiritual welfare," replied the monk, rising from the bed on which he had thrown himself, without laying aside his disguise, and opening the door. " 1 have had brief time for sleep ; yet two or three hours snatched from the twenty-four is enough for youth, though I QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 123 1 '1^ hardly sufficient for age like yours. I fear I broke in somewhat roughly on your repose last night." " Not a whit, not a whit, brother. It is not wise to wake a sleeping lion, saith the old pro- verb, but the contrary may perchance be true of a sleeping friar — hey, brother ?" said the con- fessor, chuckling at his own happy conceit, and glancing at his guest for applause, rubbing the while his hands together to keep them warm by the friction. " I will, nevertheless, try and atone for my in- trusion in some degree by making a speedy de- parture ," observed the monk. " Not so, good brother, not so ; I would have thee abide here as long as it may suit thy con- venience ; thy companionship will be most welcome. It is ill biding alone among woman- kind — to hold colloquy with poor silly creatures like sister Agathe, on whose dull senses wise words are cast away, like the throwing of goodly pearls before swine ; and, moreover, she is- deaf as a mosquenonge.'* " Is sister Agathe the only companion of your g2 « "^- 124 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. S solitude, brother?" inquired the monk, in an in- different tone, of father Bonaventure, as he slowly led the way through the gallery, his lo- comotion somewhat retarded by the spherical honours of his outward man, and a gouty halt in his left leg. " Marry is she not!" he replied, looking back over his shoulder, his portly dimensions not per- mitting his guest to walk beside him in the pas- sage. " First there is the superior (between us, brother, she would be more properly denomi- nated the * inferior'), whose physiognomy is compounded of a squint and a twisted nose, and, moreover, she suffereth under that curse to the sex, red hair : these attractions keeping lovers at a proper distance, drove her at the discreet age of thirty-five to take the veil ; verily, a wise covering for such a frontispiece." " And does this tempting specimen of the sex comprise, with sister Agathe, all your house- hold, brother?" asked the monk, gravely. "By St. Therese, no, good brother ! There are some half dozen religieuses who are full of tlie odour of sanctity, dried and withered from prayer and fasting ; hang them up in the wind, t QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 125 and it would whistle an ave through their bones; the very floor creaks credo when they move across it. A mouse might wear their consciences in his breast, and not sin. Yet, saints ha' mercy, brother ! for want of sins to confess — for the kind must ever be chattering — they puzzle their brains to conjure up vain imaginings, and din half-hatched iniquities into mine ears. I believe they would all turn murderers and robbers to have one good round sin to bring up to confession." ** Truly, you have a trying time of it, bro- ther," replied the monk in a sympathizing tone, as father Bonaventure paused to take breath, and draw a long sigh of pitiable distress, as he poured his griefs into a brother's willing ear ; " your circumstances call for the virtue of patience." " Assuredly do they, brother," said father Bonaventure, stopping full at the door of the chapel, and taking his guest by the sleeve, " as- suredly do they! There is sister Ursule, as straight, thin, fleshless an anatomy, as the breath of life ever flitted about in, comes to me with a II V I . 4 hlG QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. I holy smile that would turn a mug of new ale to vinegar, and says, forsooth, she must confess to me under seal, having sinned to her soul's da- mage, and the church's scandal. And what tliink you," he continued, with the air of a man seriously and greviously distressed, at the same time looking his guest full in the eyes with a hurio-comic expression, " what think you, bro- 1 licr, this great iniquity proved to be after all ?" *' I cannot well guess," replied the monk, surveying with a smile the fat round bulk of the confessor, " unless it were, that the frail Ursule cast forbidden glances on your goodly person." " Verily, thou hast guessed it, shrewd bro- ther; but Heaven be thanked, Dan Cupid had no linger in her holy thoughts!" he devoutly ejacu- lated. " When I urged her to unburden her conscience, she says to me, with much sighing and whispering, * Reverend father, while I chanced to elevate my eyes at vespers, they fell upon thy reverend whiskers," (here father Bonaventure complaceiitly stroked these not al- together uncomely appendages to his cheeks), QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 127 * and tempted by the devil, I bethought me, in the midst of a paternoster, if holy and youthful St. Timothy's sacred cheeks had whiskers for adornment like thine own.' Misericorde T add- ed the father, fetching a deep suspiration, be- tween a sigh and a groan, as he opened the door of the chapel and ushered in his guest, " these women will be my death. One good round sin of a godless freebooter were better worth listen- ing to the confession of, than all the milk-and- water peccadilloes of a regiment of pale-eyed re- ligieuses, such as daily we^ry out my soul, and wear the flesh from my poor bones." " Of a truth, you have kept the good wine until now, good brother Bonaventure," whisper- ed the monk, as his eyes at that moment en- countered a bevy of no\ices, one or two with their veils perhaps drawn artfully aside, and their lovely features eloquent with curiosity, as their glances were directed towards the opening door, kneeling around the altar of the oratory. " Callest thou that good wine ?" responded father Bonaventure, interrogatively, and in the same low tone of voice, following the direction 128 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. of the monk's eyes with his own, " thou art no judge of grapes, brother. Marry come up ! they are every soul possessed with a bom devil, and give me more disquiet than so many bear- cubs turned loose within the convent walls. Alas ! I fear they are given over to the power of the prince of darkness, for their hearts are prone to mischief as the sparks fly upward. If thou wilt in part ease me of my burden, bro- ther, and after prayers take upon thyself the confession of the tamest of them, demure as they now look, thou wilt soon be wearied body and soul with them, and be ready to open win- dow, and bid them fly with God's blessing, and leave thee to collect thy wits together in peace, as ere now I have prayed them to do. Good wine, is't ? The ass that carries the wine drinks but water." Thus speaking, the reverend father confessor, whose constitutional indolence, combined with the active consciences of his charges, left him, according to his own relation of his grievances, little leisure to attend to the thrift of liis own body or soul, and peace neither to the one nor QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 129 the other, but who, nevertheless, went good-na- turedly grumbling through life, advanced with a slow pace to the altar, mumbling, as he passed them, a morning salutation to the devotees, and opened the service of the hour. The oratory or chapel within which the monk was introduced constituted the basement story of the tower, the diameter of whose area was about eighteen feet. The ceiling, which overhead was raised several feet higher than the sides of the oratory, was overspread with a covering of crim- son silk, radiating from a silver star in the centre of the dome in folds or plaits, like an immense circular fan: extending on every side to the extremities of the room, it fell in hang- ings, bordered with deep fringes, to the floor, concealing the brick sides of the tower, and presenting altogether the novelty of a silken pavilion within the walls of a convent, a unique and costly tabernacle, illustrating, even in this rural retreat, that taste and lavish expence characteristic of Roman Catholics in all ages and in all countries. g3 * 1,30 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. At the left of the door by which father Bo- naventure and his guest entered stood a small altar of black marble, surmounted by a white slab of the same material ; several candles burn- ed upon it, and in the midst of them was a crucifix, the cross only a few inches in height, but of massive silver, and the effigy of the Re- deemer, of fine gold. On the right of the altar stood a mahogany confessional box, and on the left a low pulpit, from which the father con- fessor occasionally pronounced homilies to his little congregation. Before the altar, awaiting the commencement of the morning service, kneeled, in two semicircles, the females com- posing his limited audience. Those who kneeled nearest to the sanctuary were evidently the re- ligieuses, sisters, in age and tenderness of con- science, to the sister Ursule. The second row, and that farthest from the chancel, evidently consisted of that branch of father Bonaventure's flock, which, in his opinion, were given over to the delusions of sin. They were seven in number, mystic emblems, no doubt, of the Pleiades, at least so thought \\ QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 131 the youthful monk; and fourteen bright eyes glanced round and rested upon him as he fol- lowed father Bonaventure into the oratory, for the presence of a stranger in the convent was not of such frequent occurrence as to render the curiosity of females living so retired from the world either torpid or indifferent. In its gratification in this instance, however, they re- ceived a check from the eye and voice of a middle-aged female, with a sour visage, kneeling a little in advance of them, whose physiogno- mical details answered so closely to the worthy father Bonaventure's vivid description of the lady superior, that the rtranger was at no loss in fixing her identity. The oratory had no aperture for admitting the light from without, and, except when the candles were burning during morning and even- ing service, or the performance of mass on saints' days, it remained, save the partial illumination of a solitary taper burning in a chased vessel of oil set before the crucifix, in a state perfectly dark. Father Bonaventure commenced the usual service of the morning with habitual readi- 132 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. ness and indifference, hurrying through it as if anxious to bring it to a speedy termination ; while the monk, who had declined his invitation to assist him on the plea of fatigue, kneeled reverently by the chancel, and, as it happened, on account of the small dimensions of the area before the altar, near the line of novic 3S. During the prayers, his attention was drawn to the remarkably sweet and musical voice of the novice nearest to him, as she repeated, in a low tone, the customary prayers and portions of the service. Insvigated by curiosity to see the lips from which such melodious accents flowed, and behold the features of one whom his youth- ful and romantic admiration already assured him must be surpassingly fair, he put back his cowl, and partly turned his face to glance beneath her veil. The movement, gentle as it was, attracted her notice, and produced a corresponding change of her own attitude, and their eyes met. For an instant, as if fascinated, her gaze rested full upon his dark expressive eyes, which became softener' and subdued, as such eyes are wont to be when they encounter the glance of i' QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 133 youth and beauty; at the same time, they beamed with that ardent and passionate admira- tion which the vanity of a beautiful woman will not allow her to misconstrue. For a moment, and for a moment only, she forgot the nun in the woman. A blush instantly suffused her cheeks, and bending her head in confusion, she hastily veiled a face which he, nevertheless, had time to see was eminently lovely ; and then re- sumed, with a gentle suspiration which did not escape his ear, and with renewed earnestness, her momentarily-forgotten devotions. In a few minutes afterward the services of the morning closed, and both novices and reli- gieuses rising from the altar, followed in slow procession the stern superior, who deigned to cast a glance neither upon the father confessor nor the monk, and disappeared through a door hitherto concealed behind the arras, and oppo- site to that by which father Bonaventure and his guest had entered. ** Take thou the chair of confessional, bro- ther," said father Bonaventure, breathing frcoly, like a man relieved by the termination of irk- ,'i IP 134 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. . lit' :(l I, some duties, as his flock were leaving the chapel ; " the greatest sinner of them all will soon be back, if for no better purpose, at least to have an opportunity of using her tongue, shallow waters being, as thou knowest, always the most noisy." As the last novice left the chapel, she did not fail, before dropping the folds of the tapestry from her hand, to cast a timid glance towards the stranger, whose piercing eyes had so danger- ously encountered her own, no less brilliant and piercing, but tempered with the softness of the gazelle's. " Time presses, worthy brother," replied the monk, turning away his lingering gaze from the spot where the graceful figure of the novice had disappeared, and fixing it upon the very different figure of father Bonaventure, " and I may not delay a longer space than it \n\\ consume to prepare some mode of conveyance. I will break my fast with you, and then liave your hospit- able roof." " It will be difiicult journeying, brother," re- plied the priest; " thou hast not looked forth II ! QUEBEC AND NEW YOKK. 135 this morning. Come with me, though the ascent be somewhat precipitous, and I will show thee the road thou must travel, and, peradventure, when thou seest its condition, thou wilt doubt- less think it an argument in favour of sojourn- ing with me for a yet longer space. Follow, brother; the penitents may await our return; 'twill teach them patience. Patience, saith the proverb, is a good plaster." Thus speaking, he raised the hangings, and led the way through a passage between them and the bare walls to a small staircase that wound spirally to the summit of the tower. The father Bonaventure caused his guest to mount the steps in advance, while step after step, slowly and laboriously, he followed him towards the top. — " Fair and softly, fair and softly, good brother," he said, as his guest be- ga- to ascend with a light step, " hasty climbers gee sudden falls. The more haste the worse speed, saith the proverb. No human abode should be more than one story above ground." At length the monk emerged from the dark stairway upon a small rectangle a few feet square, i j: t: M : i I 136 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. SO completely monopolized by a bell, with its wheel, axle, and other appf.ratus, that there was left but little rt)om for him, and none for the capacious dimensions of father Bonaventure ; he was content to remain at the head of the stairs, with his head thrust through the trap- door, while his guest looked forth from the latticed window, which extended quite around the belfry. " Will you not come up, brother?" archly inquired the monk of his host, whose round face was thrust up through the aperture ; *' with- out your aid I cannot profit by my elevated station." ** I need not, I need not, brother," answered father Bonaventure, retaining his position, and still breathing heavily : " look forth, and thou canst see what I would point out to thee — three good feet of N'^vember snow on the earth, and the road thou art to travel about as plain as the path left by a boat on the water. Hugh ! this coming up stairs is dreadful. I am of opinion, brother, that man was not physically constituted to go up hill or up stairs. The effort that QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 137 nature makes at such times to su in the forced exertion of the muscles proves clearly that it is unnatural. Stairs are the devil's own inven- tion. But what seest thou ? Art satisfied that thou w'.H have to be my guest yet a while longer ?" As the monk looked forth from the window the sun was just rising in cloudless radiance, but thera was no warmth in his beams. The prospect he surveyed was strikingly different from that which he contemplated when first in- troduced to the reader, gazing down, from an overhanging hill, into the lovely valley of the Chaudiere. The face of the earth was now totally changed ; the green mantle of summer, and the graver robe of autumn had given way to the winding-sheet that winter had thrown over the dying year ; a stratum of snow lay deep in the glen, whitening the leafless forests, and enveloping the frozen river as if it had lain upon the solid earth ; not a trace of the path he had travelled the night previous, except where the absence of trees might indicate its direc- tion, was visible to his eye ; in one short night 138 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. |l ■i Rii sp> . winter had laid field, forest, and river, under the dominion of his hoary sceptre. Not a bird broke the silence of the morning ; the flocks and herds were safely housed ; and save a hare bounding lightly over the snow, (>r a little flock of sparrows flitting upon its surfa^^, not a quad- ruped, or a loiterer of the feathered tribe, and not a human being or living creature, was visible throughout the whole scope of his vision — stern desolation alone reigned over the inhospitable scene. " How great the change! how infinite the contrast of the present scene," said the monk, mentally, ** with that I beheld but yesterday ! The glory of the summer forests, the golden harvest-field, the lowing of the kine, and the song of the happy peasant, all have depart- ed " " Brother," said father Bonaventure, inter- rupting his train of thought, " thou seest, doubtless, what comfort awaits thee abroad. That snow lies two feet deep on the ground if it lay an inch. Neither bur line, traineau, nor carriole can move the length of a rosary, till the QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 139 road is somewhat broken up by heavy sleds, and the sun settles the snow." " But I can take horse, brother, as I came," said the monk, in a confident tone. " Thou couldst not travel a mile an hour on horseback through such snow — thou wouldst do better to take to snow-shoes." " That I will do, if there is no other alterna- tive," persevered the guest, " for forward I must, let the difficulties be what they may. If the road is to be broken, some one must be the first to break it, and why not I as well as an- other ? If it is passable for one man, it also is for me. Look you, brother," he added, hastily, " come a step higher, and bend your eyes through the lower part of the lattice, and tell me what you see." The father confessor raised himself till his eyes were on a level with the lower crevice of the window, and looked in the direction indi- cated by his guest. " Speak, brother, what do you discern ?" ask- ed the monk, exultingly. By St. Therese ! I spy three, nay, four men (( fi V r 11 I 1 ■\^ Mi 140 I QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. on horseback far down the glen," replied the father, looking into the face of his guest with something like surprise visible in his features. " Do I see rightly, brother ?" " You see rightly," replied the monk ; " four mounted men, half a league off, are travelling thither through the snow, the difficulties of which your hospitality, brother, has led you to magnify somewhat ; they seem to travel at a good round pace nevertheless : this is fortunate ; if they pass by, and continue on farther, I shall have my road broken before me. 'Tis a special interposition of Heaven, brother — dost not think so ?" he added, pleasantly. " By St. Therese, 'tis a miracle !" answered father Bonaventure, in a disappointed tone, " but a miracle of Beelzebub's own making. Here I thought to keep thee at least till to- morrow or the day after. Well, God makes and the tailor shapes. 'Tis an ill wind blows nobody good. 'Tis folly to fret when grief's no comfort," and thus comforting himself with pro- verbs, father Bonaventure prepared to descend the stairs of the tower. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 141 *' Beware, brother," said the monk, as father Bonaventure's bald crown slowly disappeared through the scuttle ; " facilis descensus Averniy as worthy brother Ducosse would have it, not that I would intimate that your oratory is the Avernus to which Maro alludes." " Maro Virgilius was a heathen," said the confessor, as he carefully descended the stairs, perfectly assuring himself of the safety of one foot before he put down the other, progressing something as we have seen children three years old w^hen performing the same feat. " I marvel much brother Ducosse should be so given to quoting heathenish sayings; he endangereth thereby his soul's well-being. But, brother, if thou wilt travel after I have shown thee the road, why then go, and the saints be with thee. 'Tis hard to make a wild goose lay a tame egg^ Youth is ever more hasty than wise, and a little pot is soon hot. Go thou into the confessional," he added, as they reached the door of the cha- pel ; " two mornings in the week do the sisters confess, and this is one of them ; while thou art shriving the penitents, I will be making prepa- 'ill ,i''. 142 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. iti i! ii rations for thy departure. Heaven send thee patience this morning, brother, for verily thou wilt need it. But methinks thou art some- what young to be made a father confessor ; but what sayeth the proverb — 'tis not the cowl that makes the friar, nor the cap that makes the cardinal." Thus speaking, the oracular father Bonaventure drew aside the hangings, and thrusting the monk in, said — " Go in, and, by St. Therese, make clean hearts o' them! new brooms sweep clean." Then hobbling away with his usual rolling gait, which the monk, as he followed him with his eyes, thought resembled more the waddling of a duck than the walk of a reverend priest, he disappeared through a door opening from the gallery, while the new confes- sor, putting aside the arras, found himself once more within the dimly-lighted chapel. Ill QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 143 CHAP. VII. The Confessor. On entering the chapel, the monk paused a mo- ment to contemplate the circumstances in which he was so unexpectedly placed by the request of father Bonaventure. In his first interview he had not undeceived him repecting his osten- sible clerical character. "When the proposal of officiating in the confessional closet in his stead was made by the father on their way into the chapel, he had resolved, if further urged up i the subject, which he did not anticipate, to es- cape by some subterfuge, or, if it should become necessary, disclose his disguise ; but the lovely vision of the oratory acting upon a highly roman- tic imagination and feelings sufficiently suscep- tible, at once, with the potency of a magician's \i\ \y it 144 QUEBEC .D NEW YORK. I wand, overthrew his well-formed resolutions, which had originated in a species of chivalric honour, and a certain reverence for religion, and he determined to play the father confessor for a time if again solicited, trusting that his good fortune might place him once more within the influence of those brilliant eyes whose glances had penetrated his heart, and in the hearing of that sweet voice whose accents had captivated his senses ; nevertheless, when he found himself alone within the chapel, where no thoughts should have intruded, save those that had the Supreme Being for their object, its dim religious light, the solemn pomp of the altar, the sacred vessels dedicated to the worship of the Creator, the touching image of Him who " bowed his head and died," and the deep silence, like that of a tomb, all conspired to impress his mind with the awful character of the place, and send the blood with guilty violence to his brow. With a quick pulse and a conscious feeling of guilt, he hesitated to proceed to the extent proposed by the father confessor, and for a moment trembled at his own daring impiety, and at the thought ;:'!,. IF QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 145 of PC sacrilegious an assumption of holy duties. His step faltered, and he was half persuaded to turn back ; bu.t while he lingered with his hand upon the silken curtain before the door by which he had entered, a slight motion of the hangings opposite at the place where the lovely novice had disappeared, terminated his indecision. Dropping the curtain, he said abruptly, as if he would effectually silence the troublesome monitor within — " 'Tis a masquerade and mum- mery all, fc.0 I'll in and take the chances Cupid sends me " : ; d crossing the space before the altar, he aastily entered the confessional, and closed tho door. ' >:. He had scarcely concealed himself, when the arras was drawn aside, and a veiled female en- tered the chapel. After sanctifying her brow with the holy water that stood in a vase by the entrance, with a readiness which appeared the result of habit, she approached the confessional box, not omitting an additional sign of the cross upon her bosom, as she glided past the crucifix, and silently kneeled on the low step beneath VOL. I. m 146 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK, its lattice. A solitary lamp, that burned night and day, the emblem of that " light which has come into the world to save sinners," shed its pale rays through the chapel, rendering remote objects, and the form of the penitent, dim and indistinct, " Father, thy blessing !" she said, in a low monotonous voice, but as unlike that of the youthful novice, thought the disappointed con- fessor, as the croaking of the penfrog to the melody of the nightingale. By a train of reasoning not unfrequently em- ployed by young men in the affairs of the heart, the young soldier had jumped to a conclusion, for which, without sounder premises, the logic of the schools could have given him no authori- ty, winch was, that the first and only penitent must be the dark-eyed novice. His present dis- appointment was therefore proportionate to his confidence in the soundness of his reasoning, wherein his hopes outweighed probability ; more especially as the novice, unless some bird had carried it to her ear, or she had learned it by that refinement of instinct which the female QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 14T heart in such cases wonderfully exhibits, could not have been aware of this very desii-- able chan^'e of father confessors. He nevertlio- less detei mined to abide by his present fate, and out-general dame Fortune, by resorting to his own wits for improving the aspect of affairs. He therefore, 'n. a voice disguised to imitate, so far as possible, the burlesque grunts of fa then Boiiaventure, in which he was materially aided by ^he close sides of the confessional, repHed to the kneeling penitent — " Thou hast my blessing, daughter. Relieve thy soul, and briefly. A short horse is soon curried ; a short shrift and ?. long fast. Say on." " I have grievously sinned, father, both in thought and deed," said the penitent, plaintivel}-. sighing as if her heartstrings would give way, and then pausing to await the effect of her words upon her confessor. " Confess first thy sin of thought, daughter," he said, in an encouraging tone of voice. Yester eve," began the penitent, readily, (( II o , I I i I ! • 1 ^ ii: y 148 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK* as if happy at the opportunity of using her tongue, arranging her veil, and settling hersolf more easily in her kneeling posture, " yester eve, when novice Eugenie was threading my needle (for I was working at the broidery, for the covering to thy escritoir, father), she said — for thou knowest, father, these young novices lately come from Quebec, are not discreet and maidenly in their deportment, as, without men- tioning my sinful and unworthy self, those who liave been a somewhat longer space of time wed- ded to holy church — well, as 1 was saying, fa- ther, these young girls are full of all manner of iniquitous thoughts, and their vain hearts follow after the devices of their evil 'maginations con- tinually ; and," added she, raising her hands in holy horror, " they think about men, father ! not g'lch as thyself, who art as harmless as a dove, and whom I pray the Virgin will protect ; for, alas ! if thou shouldst be taken from us " " Thy sin ! thy sin of thought daughter !" interrupted the impatient confessor, as his peni- tent began to lose sight of her own sins in her horror at those of others, and in her solicitude QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 149 for her confessor ; " this worldly-minded novice, Eugenie — what has she to do with thy sins, or thee?" " As I was saying, father, novice Eugenie, worldly-minded, as thou justly sayst, was thread- ing my needle for the broidery, for thou knowst thy escritoir — " " I know, I know, daughter ; Keep to thy con- fession," interrupted the monk, in his impa- tience with difficulty disguising his voice ; " this novice ! what said she ?" " She said, father — it's a sin to repeat it, for I blush even to think of it — she said, and so loud too, that old Agathe, who was sweeping the room, could have heard her if she hadn't been deaf, that she wished tliat thou — even thy- self, holy father, wert a youthful knight in dis- guise. No wonder you start, father ; the saints preserve us ! was such like ever heard of? May St. Theiese guard her household is my prayer!" she concluded, devoutly crossing herself. "Amen!" responded the confessor, in a voice that appeared to have come from the very bot- ■I iH , i 1 I ! }> i- I ! i i 150 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. toni of father Bonaventure's chest. " "What said she further, daughter?" " As I was saying, father, when }'ou inter- rupted me," glibly continued the religicuse, ** she said she wished you were a disguised knight, like a certain brave young Norman war- rior, sir Walter De Lancy by name, whom she says she once read of in a sinful lomaunt. This comes of reading godless romances, father ; thank the Virgin, I can say I never committed tliat sin ! She said this Walter De Lancy loved a novice — no doubt just such a pert, graceless thing as this Eugenie — and for love of her, got himself admitted into the convent, disguised as tlie holy father confessor, whom he shut up in a tower in his own castle till he had told the silly novice he loved her, and prevailed on her to run away with him and marry him, as I have no doubt, and I would say it on the cross, that novice Eugenie herself would do, if she could Ijavo the opportunity. Was ever such scandal lieard of, father, as this deed of that godless Norman knight ?" *' Impious and daring youth ! He is now, no 4 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 151 doubt, doin^^ penance in purga y for a ''I'me so unparalleled," replied the monk, in a severe tone of voice. ** I trust he is, father; such sacrilegious con- duct should be punished as an example," re- sponded the penitent, with that tempered exult- ation which became humility ; ** but then, what think you this novice Eugenie said, father ? Well, she said she wished that Norman knight was alive now, and would come into the convent in disguise, and confess the household instead of you. The minx! no doubt, in that case, she thinks she'd be the novice. But if thou wert the Norman, father, thou wouldst know better," she continued, in tones meant to be very in- sinuating, " than to be taken with such silly, and withal, sinful children as these novices are — that thou wouldst." ** Thou sayst well, daughter," replied the con- fessor, in a tone of voice modelled on her own ; " if I were that sacrilegious Norman of whom thou speakst — " " Not I, father, not I! the novice Eugenie," sh6 said, hastily. I W j "I 152 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. Ii'fii ir " Well, the novice Eugenie : if I were hiin of whom she speaks, I should make choice of one more discreet and experienced; one, I think, of about thy own age, daughter." ** I knew thou wouldst, father," she said, tri- umphantly. " But was't not a great sin for this novice to listen to this Norman ?" *' Verily was it, daughter," answered the monk, solemnly ; " and she is, no doubt, en- during at this moment painful penance with him in purgatory." " With him, father ? that can be no penance if they are together," she said, in a tone of disapprobation. " In purgatory they neither know nor are known, my daughter," said the monk, mildly. " Now proceed in thy confession. A willing mind makes a light heel." ** When novice Eugenie said she wished you were the handsome young Norman knight, I said, father," here the voice of the penitent was lowered to a very confidential key, while her lips approached rather closer to tlie lattice than was customary, " that I thought thee young y QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. i:)3 and handsome enough as thou wert, and I, for one, would rather have father Bonaventure for my lover than the comeliest knight, be he Norman or whoever he be, that ever broke lance." Here a deep sigh, partaking, as the monk thought, equally of the penitential and of the amorous, concluded the first division, or the sin in thought, of the penitent's confession. " Sister Ursule, for, though I behold not thy face, such thy words bespeak thee to be," said the monk, shooting a random, but, as the result showed, a successful arrow, " although thy sin is great, in as much as thou hast suffer- ed thy thoughts to wander to my poor person instead of confining them to thy crucifix, never- theless, it may be atoned for by a penance commensurate with its enormity. I enjoin, therefore, upon thee six additional paternosters, and twelve ave marias over and above thy cus- tomary devotions; and, moreover, that thou come not to confession for a week to come, and never, by word or look, put me again in re- h3 i I }i^ 154 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. niembrance of this morning's confession. Now relate thy sin in deed, daughter." " Alas, reverend father," sighed the penitent rcligieuse, *' how can I utter my own shame ! This morning, while at mass, I lifted my eyes and gazed for at least ten seconds on the face of the holy monk at present sojourning in the convent." " Thou, woman !" exclaimed the monk, thrown off his guard by surprise and chagrin, while the penitent recoiled from the lattice with an incipient scream of alarm. He immediately, however, recovered his presence of mind, which had suddenly deserted him at the bare possi- bility of the identity of the ancient religieuse Ursule with the lovely novice of the oratory, whose features he had indistinctly seen, and whose voice he had but once heard ; but a moment's reflection convinced him of the ab- surdity of such a supposition, and in the gruffest tones of father Bonaventure he said — " The enormity of thy offence, daughter, hath moved me even to the giving utterance to my indignation in a strange tongue, as did the saints QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 155 of old, as thou hast heard me expound to thee from scripture. But wherefore didst thou let thy thoughts — nay, thy eyes, lead thee into sin ?" " It was, father," replied the penitent, who had resumed her original attitude at the lat- tice, in an apologetic tone, " solely for the good of novice Eugenie, knowing her thoughts are ever worldward. Somehow, when the strange monk kneeled so close beside her, I could not get the Norman knight out of my head, and so I naturally looked at him, and then I looked at her, and all at once, father, I saw them both turn and look at each other, and I never saw holy man look so pitifully as he looked on her bold face, as if he knew her failing. I was glad to see she had the grace to veil her head, though I had not given her credit for so much discretion. Forsooth," she added, with a toss of her head, " I shouldn't wonder if the forward chit thought it was the bold Norman knight she is ever talking about, since that godless roir.r.frjt fell into her hands, who had come and kneeled himself down beside her, as if he would look at \iu w I { i ^ , r ^56 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. such a silly child, when there were others to pick and choose from." ** Thou sayst well, daughter," said the con- fessor ; " and now, in regard to this second of- fence of thine, which thou hast done wisely to confess so readily, I enjoin thee, first, to keep all the religieuses in their rooms, and also, all the novices, save the novice Eugei^ie, for one hour to come. Eugenie I command you to send forthwith to take thy place at the confes- sional, for she hath merited not only penance, but a severe reprimand, having not only sinned herself, but tempted thee, holy sister, to commit sin, both in thought, word, and deed. But thou art released from thine offences on the per- formance of the slight penances I have enjoined upon thee. Benedicite, daughter ! Go send the novice Eugenie into the oratory." The rehgieuse Ursule rose from her knees, her heart lightened of a heavy burden by this free confession of her great sins, and the father's forgiveness, which, like a devout Catholic, she believed to be registered in heaven. We ven- ture to hope that we shall not be thought un- QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 157 charitable towards so sincere a penitent and discreet a maiden as sister Ursule, if we hint that her heart was also, in no very slight degree, lightened, and her spirits elated, by the contem- plation of the picture which her active imagina- tion painted, in colours indifferently well laid on, as if envy herself had handled the brush, of the disgrace awaiting the offending novice Eu- genie. Never did penitent hasten to perform allotted penance with the alacrity with which sister Ursule disappeared from the chapel to fulfil that item of hers contained in the last clause of the confessor's injunction, an item, it will be remembered, especially relating to that worldly-minded, knight-loving Eugenie, whose numerous sins and unnovice-like peccadilloes were a thorn in the flesh of that holy, charitable, and discreet religieuse. !^^ ii If .1 I 158 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK, CHAP. VIII. T i i i I The Novice, The silence that followed the disappearance of the religieuse Ursule on her penitential mission was passed by the young confessor in brief re- flections upon the nature and tendency of his present employment. No sophistry with which he fortified himself, through questioning the genuineness of the Roman faith, and ridiculing the act of confession, could aid him in silencing certain severe mental strictures upon the part he was acting in the sacred relation of a guest, and under a guise to which he was indebted for his safety, and the hospitality he was abusing. Neither of those could deter him from prose- cuting an amoiir, if a wayward impulse, having, perhaps, no definite aim or other purpose than QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 159 the indulgence of a romantic temperament, could with strictness be so denominated. — " I am aware," he said, " that I am playing a part both dangerous and censurable, and which my conscience refuses to defend ; but I have gone too far to recede, and my object is certainly in- nocent. If the scales are tc be so nicely ad- justed, I think the penances I have enjoined and the sins I have remitted in my assumed character, will swing evenly, so far as Dooms- day may decide, with those granted on confes- sion by worthy brother Bonaverture. But," he continued, in a gay tone, " to quote one of the good father's proverbs — * He riust needs run whom the devil drives." He thus put a period to his scruples by a coup-de-main in the shape of a proverb, whose truth certainly does not admit of question, but under whose shelter more misch'.ef has been wrought than his infernal highness, if so dis- posed, c?uld repair. " Now aid me, Cupid, and shade of Walter De Lancy !" he added, as he heaid a rustling behind the arras. n 160 QUEBEC AND NEW VORK. The next moment a graceful female figure, closely veiled, entered the chapel ; and with less scrupulous obsc ance of the forms which characterized the ent ca.\iCe of pious sister Ursule, she advanced with v n easy undulating motion, and kneeled before the lattice of the confes- sional. " Daughter," said the confessor, after a brief silence, during which only the gentle suspira- tions of the penitent were heard, while her young bosom heaved like the breast of a wild pigeon in the hands of the fowler, " daughter, thou art come to confession, I trust, with a heart suitably prepared to receive absolution ; for I am informed thy indiscretions, to give them no harsher term, have been many and ag- gravated ; but if thou hast duly repented, I will give thee absolution, on confession, for all thy offences up to this time, for I do not desire to be rigorous with youth. Thou mayst confess, beginning with the hour of matins. But first put aside thy veil, daughter, that I may see if thy looks show thee to be sufiiciently peni- tent." QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 161 The novice, from the mysterious yet elated manner of sister Ursule, who could not alto- gether disguise her pleasure as she communicat- ed her message, and from some ominous words dropped by her, of which she could only dis- tinguish the sounds " Norman knight," had an- ticipated from the father confessor a severe re- buke and onerous penance ; but when she heard the unusually mild tones of his voice, which the monk had now learned to disguise still more by placing his lips to one of the numerous aper- tures of the lattice, as if to the mouth of a tube, she experienced infinite relief, and drawing aside her veil, prepared with cheerfulness and confi- dence to make her confession. The removal of her veil, which is seldom worn at confession, exposed to the gaze of the young confessor, as he surveyed them through the interstices of the confessional blinds, the features of a strikingly-beautiful girl, not more than sixteen years of age. Her hair was of the richest shade of auburn, and escaping from the confinement of the virgin fillet that bound it, flowed in golden luxuriance over her faultless i I ■i lis i h\ IG2 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. neck and finely-turned shoTJ.lders, the exquisite shape of which was errinently displayed by the dark-coloured and closeiy-fitting habit that she wore. Meeting close at the thro. it, wliere it was secured by a jet clasp, it dostciided to her waist, exhibiting its fine proportion:, and perfect symmetry to much greater advantage than wor- thy sister Ursule, or perhaps tlie iincntors of this religious costume would have approved, had their carefiiiuesr. in dejinrting from the sin-al- luring garment.'' of the v/orld partaken more of worldly wisdcm. The dark colour of her attire gave also additional lustre to a complexion re- markably clear and brilliant. This was espe- cially exemplified in the contrast between the sombre hue of her habit and a pair of snowy hands, soft and childlike in appearance (the ta- per fingers, nevertheless, showing those graceful proportions indicating the maturer maiden) which, protruding from the closely-cut sleeve, were de- murely crossed on her bosom. Her eyes, at first, were meekly cast down, as became the circum- stances and attitude of the penitent, offering to the gaze of the admiring soldier dark lashes, QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 163 like silken fringes, shading and quite conroaling the orbs beneath ; but when, embarrassed by the silence preserved by her confessor, who, for- getful of his situation, drank in with his eyes her unconscious beauty, she tirridly raised them to the lattice, they beamed with intelligence and a sweetness of expression just sufficiently mingled with passion, or, to speak with greater truth, love, to be irresistibly fascinating. They were of that peculiar shade of brown, often united with auburn hair, closely allied to black, and commonly designated as such, but which is more nearly assimilated o the rich hue of the chesnut ; they were full of lambent fire, and ready to kindle into flame, or overflow with tenderness, as the changing impulses of her soul played in their dark and dangerous depths. Her beauty was of an oriental cast ; her face oval ; i>er forehead low, but pleasing, and fulling into a nose of classic beauty. Her mouth was small and more exquisitely formed, and infinitely more fatal, than Cupid's bow, who, it is fabled, stole from beau- ty's lips its graceful shape. An air of demure submission pervaded her 164 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. ■ 1 snKw f 1 1 1 1 Hill' IHlMi Mlt ■HI II whole manner, th. existence of which was de- nied, however, by ;• ^ arch expression playing about the corners of her mouth, and a piquant glance that her drooping eyelids could not alto- gether conceal. Her beauty was the more striking from the absence of affectation, as, unconscious of observ- ation, or, at least, of exciting admiration, she kneeled artlessly before the confessional, oblivious of those little airs which, if she had known who gazed upon her, she might have called to her aid, but to diminish rather than increase the charm created by her ingenuous loveliness. The young confessor, in the ardour of his ad- miration, had wellnigh forgotten his assumed character, and, yielding to the impulse of youth- ful passion, was about to rush from the confes- sional to cast himself at her feet, when the pe- culiar harp-tones of her voice, which had sothrilU ed upon his senses when he first heard them, in scarcely audible prayer, recalled him to the du- ties, now, at least, sufficiently agreeable, of his usurped station. Raising her eloquent eyes, she said, sweetly QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 165 and persuasively — " Father, I hope your silence is not from anger laat I said what I did about the Norman knight, for I know that envious nun, Ursule, has told you of it." ** No, my daughter," replied the confessor, with difficulty addressing youth and beauty in the gruff tones of father Bonaventure, at the same time impatient to throw off his disguise and appear before her with all the advantages of youthful eloquence and fascinating address, graces which few possessed in a more eminent degree, and of whose power over the female heart no one was more conscious ; "no, Eu- genie, I am not offended. But, as thou hast voluntarily renounced the world and its vanities, thou shouldst think of no other bridegroom than the church, to which thou art betrothed." " No, no, I have not voluntarily renounced the world, father," she replied, with some warmth, her dark eye lighting up with animation 5 "al- though I love the church, I do not love it enough to relinquish all the enjoyments of life for it. May not heaven be won without such sacrifice? I would rather try my chance with otliers, to 16(5 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. ill I whom the green earth is as free as to the forest deer, tlian bo mewed up here all my life, till I come to be such a withered spectre as nun Ur- sule, who I verily believe would forfeit her soul's salvation, if blic could see me this day the coun- terpart to herself." Tliis was said with feminine spirit and the pouting lip of a spoiled child. i " Then why art thou here, daughter, if against thy will ?" asked the monk, becoming interest- ed in the fate of the lovely penitent. " Because," she replied, with feeling, " the will of others was stronger than mine. I have been here four months to-morrow, father ; but before I remain eight more, and then take the veil, I will make my escape. I never knew," she continued, witli emotion, " how to compas- sionate poor imprisoned birds till now. I re- member reading in one of my English books, how a poor starling shut up in a cage continual- ly cried, * I can't get out ! I can't get out !' I know how to feel for the poor starling now, ftither!" She spoke these words with a natural and QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 167 touching eloquence tliat affected the young sol- dier, while the heavy drooping lid and increased lustre of her eyes betrayed the depth of her own emotion. " And who forced thee, my child, to embrace a life for which thou hadst no inclination ?" in- quired the monk, with additional interest in the fate of the lovely novice. , " My guardian and uncle, the vicomte St. Clair," she answered, with an indignant flash of her eyes, and a scornful curl of her beautiful up- per lip ; " but I thought you knevv^ this, father ?" " Yes, Eugenie, true ; but I had forgotten. Where now is thy uncle the vicomte ?" " Gone from Quebec to France, to take pos- session of my grandfather's estate, which should have been my own inheritance through my father, \A\o was the eldest son." " And he has placed thee in this convent, that, through thy taking the veil, he may usurp thy right." " He has, father. Ke urged, remonstrated, and thveatened, and I had no other alternative than to yield to his tyranny. He was my guar- I !: !i I ! !'! !!' » )i h I'l 168 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. dian, on the death of my father, colonel De Lisle, who fell by the side of the noble mar- quis De Montcalm, in the attack on Quebec. The fatal tidings were conveyed to my mother, then at Montmorenci. She survived him but a few weeks, leaving me an infant. The vicomte St. Clair, whom my mother had appointed my guardian, consigned me to the care of a madame Montmorin ; she was the widow of a distin- guished officer, and a friend of my mother. I resided with her until my uncle, who had been living upon my father's property in France, tempted by his cupidity and his fears of soon being dispossessed (as I was nearly of the legal age to enter upon the possession), resolved to deprive me bf it. He arrived at Quebec in May last, and by entreaties, promises, and threats, induced me to consent to enter, as a novice, the Hotel Dieu. After six weeks' resi- dence there, I found means to escape ; when the vicomte St. Clair, who still remained in Quebec, learning that I had returned to the house of madame Montmorin, came for me. Deceived by his artful language, this lady permitted me QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 169 to be taken away by my uncle, who conveyed me here, bidding, in my hearing, the superior to guard me as if I were a state's prisoner. It is thus, father, I came to be an involuntary inmate of a convent ; but," she added, firm- ly, " I will not remain here; even the as- sumption of the veil itself should not prevent my improving the first opportunity of escape." Her narrative was given with a degree of ani- mation that heightened the beauty of her fea- tures, and communicated to them the additional attribute of moral sublimity. During the reci- tal, her eyes lighted up with varied impulses ; filial pride, while she spoke of her father's sol- dierly death ; resentment, when she alluded to her wrongs; affection, when she spoke of her friends, like the changing features of an April sky reflected in a lake, were mirrored in them. As the young soldier listened to a theme well calculated, coming from such lips, to awaken the chivalrous spirit in a youthful breast, he was scarcely able to moderate his indignation, or re- frain from at once declaring himself the cham- VOL. I . I . .' ■I i ! 1 I' i; uk\ i ' 4 l^in 170 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. pion of her v;rongs. But while he mentally re- solved, with the prompt decision of a romantic youth, to become her sworn knight in this cause, and deliver her from an oppression which both his education and sense of justice declared to be illegal and criminal, his heart at the same time entering a protest against it, of at least equal strength, he decided to prepare the way with caution and safety both to himself and the in- teresting object of his sympathy. The confes- sion of the nun Ursule had furnished him with a clew, by which he determined to be guided in his contemplated enterprise. " Daughter Eugenie," he said, addressing her as she kneeled before him with a heaving bosom and a cheek still glowing with excited feelings, " my heart shares with thee thy unhappy desti- ny. Thou hast been speaking to sister Ursule of Walter De Lancy, and instituting some com- parison between him and father Bonaven , that is to say, myself." " Nay, father," she said, an arch smile mant- ling her lips as she spoke, " but you have al- ready given me absolution for this. But, father. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 171 is not your voice strangely altered this morning ?" " It is the cold and snow— the snow, daugh- ter," replied the confessor, in a voice which fa- ther Bonaventure himself would have mistaken for his own. " But I would speak to thee of this Norman kn\^ht. Thou sayst that, in the guise of a confessor, he entered the convent and shrived the inmates ?" " Yes, reverend fa' ^r," she replied, hesitat- ingly, " it was in Normandy ; and a brave knight, and one worthy a maiden's love he was. But that was in the days of romance, father," she added, with a gentle sigh ; " such things are not now known except in olden tales." " Perhaps not, Eugenie," said the young sol- dier ; ** but what now wouldst thou give, if I, thy father confessor, were to prove a knight, not so gallant and comely, perhaps, as thy Norman De Lancy, but young, and brave, and wil- ling to go the death to free thee from thy im- prisonment ?" " You a brave and gallant knight, father Bo- naventure !" repeated the novice, laughing. i2 '■fsi lii '■■^v- 172 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. " Even so, novice ; what wouldst thou give ?'* " I would give you, if you were as you say,' replied the maiden, with a smile that doubtless would have captivated the heart of father Bona- ventu.'e if he had been in the place of his dan- gerous guest, while her face beamed as if there had been liberty in the thought, " what the no- vice, for whose love this brave knight disguised himself, gave to him — heart and hand : v^'hat more could maiden give ?" " Eugenie," said the young soldier, in his na- tural tones, but modulated to the gentlest and most persuasive accents, " be not alarmed at my voice. Retain, I beseech you, your presence of mind. I am neither father Bonaventure nor a confessor, but a young soldier, your Norman knight if you will, who will place you free as the wild roe beneath the blue heavens, with his life's purchase, and within the hour, if you will trust to his loyalty and honour." As he spoke he opened the door of the confessional, and stood before her. At his appearance she shrunk back with the extremity of alarm visible on her countenance. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 173 Gracefully and tenderly taking her passive hand, he threw back his cowl, and exposed youthful and handsome features, instead of those of father Bonaventure ; and those same dark eyes whose passionate fire had already lighted a flame in her heart, again met her own. — " Be not alarmed, fair Eugenie," he said to the be- wildered novice, who scarcely knew whether she •vas awake or dreaming, at so sudden a realiza- tion of her romantic wishes ; " deign to accept me as your Norman knight, f*vA I will free you from this dreary prison." " What guarantee have I of your good faith, sir cavalier ?" she asked, recovering her presence of mind, and archly smiling as she withdrew her hand from that of the young soldier. " In proof of my sincerity, lovely girl," said the youth, smiling in his turn, and speaking fu a tone that carried confidence to her bosom, " I am about to confide to you my safety, and per- haps my life." Thus speaking, he advanced to and carefully secured both entrances of the chapel, and then returned to her, cast aside his disguise, and, to ffiW J I i t 174 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. the increased surprise of the astonished maiden, appeared before her in the gay and gallant cos- tume of a colonial officer of rank. — " Now, Eu- genie," he said, placing his foot with something like contempt upon the monk's cassock, which he had cast on the ground, " you see me in my true character, as a soldier in the anny of the colonies, which are in arms against the oppres- sion of the mother country, I have adopted this disguise that I may travel without inter- ruption to Quebec, whither I am sent on a mis- sion of importance by the commanding officer of a division of the colonial army now on r'ts march into Canada. The father Bonaven -vj only knows me as a brother priest. I an*, to take my departure within an hour to j-.»ursue my joiurney. If you will confide in me, by my ho- nour as a soldier and a gentleman, I will aid your escape from the convent, if I have to lead you forth in the face of the whole sisterhood, the father Bonaventure, and nun Ursula to boot," he added, smiling, " Fly with me, dearest Eugenie," he persisted, in a voice modulated by love to accents of inexpressible sweetness, and QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 175 with a fascination of look and manner that was irresistible ; " I feel that from this moment our destinies are inseparably linked. Speak, lovely- one ; say that you will trust to my honour, as a sister would confide in a brother. I will be to you as a brother, and sacred as a sister will I re^'ard you, until I place you under the roof of some friend in Quebec, or wherever you wish to find an asylum. Not one word from those lovely lips, not one look from those soft eyes, to tell me that I do not plead in vain ?" As the tender vine, when cast loose by the tempest from its support, at length reaches and clings around some noble trunk, towards which its tendrils have been long stretched forth — as the dove, when pursued by the trained hawk, seeks shelter in the bosom of the falconer, so did the persecuted and friendless novice commit her destiny to the honour and chivalry of the handsome young soldier who suppliantly kneeled at her feet, and passionately urged his romantic Tiuit. Just as she had yielded with downcast eyeS; stern loud voices without the convent, as 'i\l v:. 176 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. if demanding admittance, accompanied by vehe- ment knocking on the door, startled them both. The lover hastily rose to his feet, and their eyes eloquently met : by a sort of freemasonry said to exist among lovers, more was conveyed by the magical interchange of their glances than the tongues of either could have uttered : the next moment, as if actuated by one impulse, they drew near each other, and in an instant +he arms of the daring youth were encircling the yielding form of the blushing novice, and his bold lips pressed her own. With her virgin cheeks burning with shame and with heightened beauty, she bounded away from him and fled from the oratory. He hastily resumed his disguise, and with his bosom swelling with the pride of recent con- quest, and his dark eyes flashing with the tri- umph of a successful wooer, he hastened to as- certain the cause of the noise without. As he advanced through the ^^allery it increased in violence, as if the applicants held ■ n. slight vene- ration the sacred character of the convent, or QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 177 were influenced by circumstances to whose ur- gency the shelter of a convent or hostel were alike welcome. CHAP. IX. The Spij. As the monk hastened through the gallery, for the purpose of ascertaining the cause of the clamour, so ill suited to the peaceful character of a religious abode, he was met by Zacharie, who, in a voice tremulous with alarm, but spiced, nevertheless, with a sufficient share of his natu- ral audacity, said — " If thou likest not a hemp- en cravat, monk or soldier, or whatever thou art, back with thee to some lurking-hole." " What mean you, boy ?" inquired the monk, earnestly, but without exhibiting any signs of alarm ; " can you tell me the meaning of this rude uproar outside the gate ?" i3 178 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK* (I ^n I. There are four horsemen with- out who dtmand a spy, who, they contend, has passed this way under a monk's cowl and cas- sock : and they swear round oaths, one louder than the others making oath by his beard, they will give him a short shrift and a merry dance 'tween heaven and earth, if they lay hands on him. Thou knowest best if thou hast interest in this matter, father." " No trifling interest, boy, as you have guess- ed," said the monk, with a calm demeanour, and apparently unmoved by this announcement of danger. Nevertheless, his eyes flashed, and his lips were compressed with determination, as, flxing his gaze full upon the boy, he said, in a low and firm voice — " Zacharie, I must not be taken. If they break into the convent, as, from their earnest blows they are likely to, then we must see how one man can bear up against four." " But thou shalt not be taken," said the lad, decidedly, catching the spirit of the monk : " I said last night I would serve thee, and I will now do it. But I shall have to lie roundly for it. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 179 fiather, for which thou wilt, no doubt, give me absolution," he dryly added. " No, no, boy, I alone must face these men," he replied, passing Zacharie with a youthful im- petuosity, which, doubtless, would have drawn upon him the censure of the old chevalier De Levi. " Faith, that thou shalt not !" responded Za- charie. " Keep close for the next five minutes ; show neither cowl nor cassock, and I will so deal with them that they will give thee little trouble." ** But you will involve yourself in danger," said the monk, catching and detaining Zacharie by his capote, as he was about to bound from him. ** Not so, father," he answered confident' v ; ** I know two of the loons well, for their up- roar waked me, and I had a glimpse of them from the window while they were calling out for a spy they swore was concealed within the four walls of this convent, and so I hastened hither to give thee warning. Keep out of the way, father, and I will soon put them on a false scent. But I must vanish, for here come the women," 180 QUKBFC AND NEW YORKr Hi Then placing his fingers in his ears, he darterj away from the monk, as the extremity of the cloister began to be filled wii,h the terrified in- mates, both religieuses and novices, of the con- vent, whom the noise had drawn from their apartments. As Zacharie disappeared at the opposite end of the gallery, he turned the lock in the door leading from it into the hall, and thereby effec- tually prevented the monk's interference in his tactics. On his entrance the strangers were still hammering and shouting for admittance. Beside the great convent door, holding the key in his ha.idf and ia grc;at perturbation of spirit, sat fa- ther Boiiavcntuie himself; he was too irresolute to apply tlie key to the lock, although, at each repetition of the knocks and shouts, he essayed to do it. Their demands for admission, whether made wdth their tongues or the butts of their pistols, he answered with a faint denial, enforced by some apt proverb, of having seen or enter- tained either ofl^icer or spy ; nevertheless, his fears whispered to him, that if the monk whom he had left in the confessional, should prove, as QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 18t fude, C r- * he now began to suspect, a spy, or layman in disguise — an enemy to the government he already knew him to be — his presence in the convent would result in his own ruin both with church and state. In his most palmy state of peace and father Bonaventure was not remarka for energy or uncommon presence of \\ cumstances, however, seldom called these virtues into trial, his most appalling dangers being those that threatened the much-dreaded diminution of his corporeal dignity. At this crisis he found himself in a condition of great perturbation. The entrance of Zacharie afforded him that kind and degree of relief which is experienced by the un- fortunate when they find a fellow-being, however insignificant and incapable of affording effectual aid, compelled to share their misfortunes. " Dost thou bolt that door, jackanapes ?" he cried, in alarm, the last spark of his vaHancy, which the assault of the marauders had left glim- mering, going out as he detected this apparent conspiracy on the part of one within the be- sieged place ; " wilt thou give me no way of es- I ''11 [A u ! I ^ '1 !. 1! IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I ItilM |25 ■- lii |Z2 £f Ufi 12.0 u& ; ll^Ui. U4 ^ 6" - » Hiotographic Sdences Corporation 33 WIST MAIN STRUT WRRSTII N.Y. 145M (7I6,S73-4S03 '^ iV <^ w,s - ^^ ^7<5. ^;^ 4?V^. l' ^1 \S2 QUEBEC AND NEW YOHK. cape from the assaults of these godless highway- men, if they batter down the door, as they arc yet like to do ? Verily," he added, in the depth of his misery, " verily, I am caught like a bird in the snares of the fowler !" " Hist, father !" replied the boy ; " seest thou not that the key is on the inside, and that thou canst get out if they do not let a hole into that fat paunch o* thine, which would be a charitable letting out o' much wind, and an afterward sav- ing o' broadcloth." " Heaven forbid !" ejaculated the monk, rising from the bench and waddling towards the door of escape with wonderful celerity, the flesh of his cheeks and sides quivering as he rolled along, as if of the consistency of jelly. " Ho, ho ! ho, la, ho !" cried a boisterous voice without, while a blow followed each syl- lable by way of corollary ; " wilt have a bullet hole bored through thy door, old father Bona- venture? Thou hast kept us full ten minutes waiting for thee to unbolt, and, by my beard, if thou keepest good men without in the snow, while thou art within in the feathers, we will QtJEBEC AND NEW YORK* m blow thy door through in the cocking of an ar- quebus, if old cloven-hoof himself stood behind it — by my beard will we, old dad !" " By thy beard thou wilt not, Ivuc Giles," replied Zacharie, imitating, as closely as a bag- pipe could imitate a bassoon^ the hoarse voice of the speaker : ** dost think thou art at an alehouse porch, that thou roarest so like a sea-horse ?" " By my beard !" cried the same voice, though in tones somewhat lowered, and as if addressing his comrades, ** if old cloven-hoof be not there himself, there spoke his first-bom, that little hop-o'-my-thumb, Zacharie Nicolet. Ha ! my young cub," he said, raising his voice, " art thou there ?" " Ay, thou old bear," answered Zacharie, in the same tone, " go suck thy paws ; for thou'lt find no meat here." " By the beard of St. Peter, and that was a yard long, that may be true. But see if I wring not thy neck, thou speckled hawk, hatch od from a hen's egg." " Faith, Luc, an* thou comest to that, thovt I m 184 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK, I! canst not tell if thou art hawk's brood or hen's brood, if all tales be true." " Didst ever hear a young chick cackle so bravely, boys ?" said the prototype of our friend Jacques, laughing loudly. " By my beard, I always get the left hand o' thy fool's tongue, Zacharie. It's ill flinging chaff against an east wind," " Thou hast named thy witless words most aptly, Luc," said Zacharie, laughing; " and I bid thee beware, lest I blow both thee and thy chaff far from this floor, if thou goest not about thy business." . *' Not till we get the grist we came for, little Nic," answered the man, doggedly. ** If thou seekest him, I guess thou wilt not find him here, Luc Giles." - . " Knowest thou aught of him, ^ d ?" inquired Luc Giles, eagerly ; " 'twill be \. .1 a score of crowns in thy bonnet, if thiu canst put us on the right scent. But how comest thou here, Zacharie ? Hast donned cassock and turned priest, lad, hey ?" . ,^ _ Not I, Luc ; between old mother and father (( QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 185 Due, I get enough of priest and cassock at home. But, between thee and me, Luc," added the boy, lowering his voice, and speaking in a confiden- tial tone, " I guided a monk to this convent last night; it may be 'tis him thou seekest." While he was speaking, the monk advanced through the door by which father Bonaventure had effected his retreat (which, we will mention in passing, was not stayed until he found him- self, safe from ball and steel, within the chapel), and, as Zacharie ceased, he felt a hand upon his throat, and a stern whisper in his ear — " Vil- lain, would you betray me ?" " Hands off, sir monk," said the boy, in the same suppressed to.?e, not the least disconcerted by this summary proceeding ; " thou art over hasty with thy hands. Stand beside me, and if I prove faithless," he firmly added, " then make thy blade and my bones acquainted." The monk, reassured by the frank and reso- lute tones of the boy, released his grasp, and, as if mortified at his want of confidence and his hasty act, retired to the upper end of the hall, leaving him to pursue the conference with those 186 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. ) ■il li ! without in his own way. At the same instant, amid a murmur of elated Toices, Luc Giles said, eagerly — " It was thou, then, Zacharie Nicolet, that guided him hither? That silly donkey, Jacques, we met on the road at old Alice's hos- tel, said he had guided a monk to Ducosse's, and when I would know more, he swore at me by his beard that he would not tell. But I gave his chin a tweak," added Giles, laughing hoarsely, his companions joining in his merriment, " and by the beard o' me, 1 planted him a buffet over his ears, to mend his manners when in company with his betters, and so rode on. We could get nothing from old Ducosse but scraps of outland- ish Latin, and pushed forward, inquiring here and there on the road, and so tracked him here. And now we've earthed the fox, by my beard, we'll have our game out of him !" " An old fox hath a long trail, Luc," said the boy ; " thou wilt have to track him farther yet, and take thy game otherwheres. He delayed here but half an hour to bait, and then pushed forward in great haste alone, for fear he should get blocked up by the snow. I fear 'twill be QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 18T hard to track him now," he added, in an inimit- able tone of feigned disappointment; " by the cross ! if I had known he were a spy, I'd have placed him under lock and key in father Bonaventure's wine-cellar." " Sayst thou so !" exclaimed Luc Giles, in a tone of real disappointment ; ** then, by my mo- ther's beard, we must ride for it ! How far has he the start of us ?" " Good three hours ; but the roads are heavy, and he must travel slow. With hard riding thou wilt come up with him ere night sets in. But how knowest thou he is a spy, Luc?" " I saw him the night of Francois Benoit's death in the colonial uniform ; and as we — that is, king George, which is all the same — be fight- ing with the colonies, I began to smell a rat ; but before I could make up my mind whether he was a spy or no, father Etienne got him off in a monk's garb, and tried afterward to throw dust in my eyes. But 'twouldn't do ! I got my mates together, took horse, and gave chace. Now, if thou sayest he has gone ahead, why we'll e'en keep on till we run down our game. II 1 ii il 188 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. The governor'd give a round hundred crowns to catch a spy. It's for no good he's skulking through the valley, I'll be sworn. Come, com- rades, let us ride !" " If I do till we take a pull at the priest's wine-flagon, may I drink water all the days of my life !" said, gruffly, one of the party, who had not before spoken. ** Ay, ay, Gregory is the only sensible lad among us," said another : " give us a swig o' the old daddy's juice, and then we'll ride, but not a step without." " By my beard, you say well, comrades all !" added Luc Giles. " Out with the key o' the wine-tap. Bony ; if thou wilt not let us into thy old rookery, have the grace to give us a little of the genuine * forty-five' to moisten our throats, which are as dry as a sponge with this cursed hallooing at thy door. Tip us the flagon, little Zacharie, for I'll be sworn the father has it handy." ^ " In the name o' the blessed St. Peter I will give thee a cup of water, and bid thee depart in peace," replied the boy, imitating the manner of QUEBEC AMD NEW YORK. 189 father Bonaventure, handing, as he spoke, a flagon which old Agathe, on first learning the demand, and anticipating the result, had hastily filled from a cask in an adjoining recess ; *' what can my sons expect but holy-water from a priest's hands?" ** Callest thou this holy water, boy?" said Luc Giles, who had taken the tankard with a gloomy brow, hearing the words that accompa- nied it, but now spoke like a man who is unex- pectedly pleased; " if the monks and priests drink such water as this, I have no objection to turning monk myself." The flagon was passed round, eliciting that emphatic smacking of the lips which follows grateful draughts of the juice of the grape, and drawing especially frori him who had been called Gregory, a deep-drawn sigh, as if he mourned that he had no room beneath his jacket for ano- ther flagon. ** Zach, lad, thou art fit to be cupbearer to the pope," said Giles, returning the empty ves- sel ; " tell old Bony we'll call and take another sprinkling of his holy water on our way back. ; '. |i ii\ 190 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. NoW| good bye, and take care of thyself, Za- chie," he added, ironically ; " the saints send thee safely back to thy old mother's apron-string, and tell her wean thee when thou hast cut thy teeth. Come, mates, let us ride i" " My dam's apron-string hang thee yet," re- plied the boy, as they rode across the court to the convent gate ; ** if I have not filed thy eye- teeth for thee this day, thou braggart clown, and cheated thee under thy nose, then wilt thou cheat the hangman, which thou art not like to do. Now, sir monk," he continued, turning from the window and addressing the young sol- dier with ready self-possession, " thou mayest abide here until night, and, when the moon rises, I'll get a faithful half-breed to guide thee to the river. This Luc Giles will give up the pursuit when he can learn nothing more of his chase, and will be back here, swearing more va- liantly by his black chin than thou hast heard him do but now. But the bird will be flown, and he may give father Bonaventure the benefit of his knocks in return for flagons of holy water." My brave lad," said the monk, grasping his ft QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 191 hand, and warmly acknowledging his obligationsi at the same time commending his address and faitlifulness, " how can I reward you ?" " The best reward thou canst bestow," said the boy, proudly, " and the only one, too, that I will accept, is to be made a soldier such as thou art." . " You are too young, Zacharie," said the of- ficer, smiling. ** Would you fight against King George?" " Ay, that would I against any king. But I am almost as tall as thyself," he added, drawing himself up ; ** it were a charity to make a soldier of me, father, lest I carve men's throats without the law on my side, as thou hast, who do it by the wholesale." " What sayest thou of carving men's throats by the wholesale, thou prating manakin? A small spai'k makes a great fire. Soon ripe, soon rotten," cried father Bonaventure, who, after looking in at the door, and satisfying himself that the coast was clear, now bustled into the hall. In one hand he bore an ancient firelock, which, from the shattered condition of the stock 192 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. Hi and a huge gape in the barrel, was, like the young Arab's fowlingpiece, somewhat given to bursting; it was, moreover, without a lock. In the other hand he carried a stout oaken cudgel, probably the most serviceable weapon of the two. " The cowards are gone, ha ?" he cried, bran- dishing his weapons, and advancing boldly up to the door ; " 'sdeath I 'tis well they fled. Mars ! how I wish I had been trained a soldier ! I would ha' carved their flesh for 'em. Didst hear, boy? didst hear, brother? Agathe, didst hear how stoutly I told them begone, there was no spy here ? and didst not see how the door shook as they leaned against it, with their quak- ing at my dreadful voice?" >. " Thou didst quake all over, father," said Za- charie, dryly. - " Hist, lad! Verily, brother, it was with much exercise of that Christian self-denial which our faith inculcateth on such occasions, that I could refrain from attacking, with my single arm, these four men of war. 'Sdeath, I know not to what extent my natural valour might have car- " " . T . "V_ " - QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 193 ried me, for, of a truth, my indignation c'id boil within me, if I had not bethought me to take myself to prayers in the chapel against such temptations. Surely forbearance hath its re- ward, saith the Scripture.'* " But how camest thou by that crazy old firelock, father ? Is't the reward of thy forbear- ance ?" asked Zacharie. " I did hear a noise, as if a battering-ram were levelled at the gates," replied the confes- sor ; " and being fortified within, I sallied forth, like David, to the defence, and did arm myself with these bloody weapons of war as I came through the gallery ; and when I arrived here, be- hold, the enemy had fled. If men cannot bite, they had best not show their teeth." " 'Tis a pity, father, thou didst not get here before they fled," said Zacharie ; " they would then, doubtless, have been well punished for their insolence, and, for the future, taught how to come roaring about convent walls." " That would'a I" said the doughty and va- lorous father Bonaventure, drawing a long breath. VOL. I. Jfe 194 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. Then seating himself upon the settle he had lately deserted with such commendable self- denial, he placed his cudgel and firelock to- gether across his knees, and looked towards his guest as if he desired an explanation of the affair. It was now useless for the disguised soldier to attempt longer to conceal his real character from father Bonaveniure, whose surprise on learning it was only equalled by his astonish- ment at the audacity of his guest in assuming the duties of a confessor. This seemed to trouble him not a little, as, &om time to time, he looked askance at him, gathered his obese forehead into a frown, and essayed to give utterance to his thoughts; but his purpose as frequently failed him, either from constitutional indolence, which made speaking, at least in way of reproof, an effort, or from a conviction that his spiritual weapons would be but an ill match in contest with one armed with youth, and, peradventure, sharp steel. Father Bonaventure, therefore, gave vent to his displeasure, if one so uniformly good-natured could retain in his composition for QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 195 any length of time an emotion so dangerous to his bodily thrift as anger, in an occasional fierce look, a slight tremour of the lip, the vain pro- mise of speech, and some half-a-dozen long- drawn sighs. " Reverend father," said the soldier, whose penetration enabled him to discover the cause of his emotion, " it would have become me better to have confided to you last night the secret of my disguise. I am not a priest in the colonial army, as you are, doubtless, already aware, but an officer therein. I shall follow this youth's advice, and burden your hospitality until night, when I will pursue my journey, the object of which you are truly acquainted with. My secret is yet only known to yourself and this lad, for the females doubtless were too far from the scene of the late alarm, to have heard what would have given them additional anxiety : to them you can give any explanation you list ; but let them not know, father, that I am the spy those men seek, or indeed that I am other than what, in this disguise, I seem." k2 196 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. " And continue to give thee my chair in the confessional, brother ;" said father Bonaventure, with a glance of humour in his eyes, as he turned them on his guest ; " make the young wolf the lambs' keeper, ha ?" " Not so, father ; the lambs are safe enough for me." " Pen them in the fold, father Bonaventure," said Zacharie, ** I'll be their watch-dog." " Beshrew me if thou wilt," answered the priest ; " that would indeed better the matter. The same breath that bloweth out the candle kindleth the fire, saith the proverb." " But I'll dip in holy water, father," answer- ed Zacharie. " Crows are never the whiter for washing themselves, lad. Go to, go to — I will be my own shepherd," he added, laughing. " Now, sir soldier, or brother, as I had best call thee in respect to thy habit, thou mayst eat, drink, and sleep as thou wilt, till thy departure : thou knowest where thy cell is situate ; 'tis thine while thou art our guest; but see that thy steps turn not towards my sheepfold, and thou mayst safely <^ fiiBEC AND NEW YORK. 197 remain an inmate of the convent. Didst confess any one this morning, brother ?" he hastily in- quired. " There's no one will say they have heard other voice than yours this day," he replied, evasively. ** The better — all the better for thee and mine," said the confessor, cheerfully ; " there hath been less harm done than I dared hope ; so come with me to the refectory, where sister Agathe, if these rude riders have not scared her wits away, hath made ready our morning repast. Come thou also, lad, and break thy fast ; prayers and provender never hinder any man's journey. But methinks thou art rather a forward youth ; wanton kits however may make sober cats." Father Bonaventure having thus spoken, pre- ceded his guest to the refectory. The opinion expressed by the monk in relation to the knowledge possessed by the female in- mates of the convent of his real character was correct. Too remote from the hall door to hear distinctly the conversation between Zacharie and Luc Giles, they had only understood that 198 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. men were in pursuit of some soldier supposed to have taken shelter in the convent, but enter- tained no suspicion of the identity of the youth- ful monk with the fugitive. One of their num- ber however instigated by curiosity, or some deeper feeling, had the boldness to advance be- yond her timid companions, and approach the door leading from the gallery into the hall, though not without receiving a frown from the superior, and a reproof from sister Ursule. Eu- genie, for it was the novice of the oratory, had heard the harsh voices of the men demanding the disguised spy, and with a strange anxiety that she could not account for, she listened un- il they had departed ; then, possessed with the assurance of the truth of her young confessor's story, and informed of his danger as a spy, she hastily retreated, and rejoined her trembling sisters at the farther extremity of the gallery, as father Bonaventure came from the chapel to return to the field he had so discreetly and piously deserted. We will briefly pass over the monotonous events of the day ; by the young soldier it was QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 199 passed in his cell in poring over a huge black- letter tome, and in devising a plan for the es- cape of Eugenie ; by father Bonaventure, seated in a leathern arm-chair, placed square before the refectory-room fire, into which he vacantly gazed, with his hands clasped over the front of his comely person; by the nuns and novices, in their rooms over rosaries, missals, or embroidery- frames ; and by Zacharie, after he had seen and arranged affairs with the Indian guide, in tin- kering at father Bonaventure's old firelock, or wandering restlessly through the long passages and deserted cells of the convent. \ w Hi ■i Vi *!■>>«• $■ I' ^ 200 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. CHAP. X. The Flight, The chamber or cell occupied by the monk was situated in a remote part of the convent. A single window, guarded by a lattice of ironwork, closed by a padlock, admitted sufficient light into it, while, at the same time, it afforded the security of a prison. Extending from the ceil- ing to the floor, it gave egress, when thrown open, to a close gallery, or cloister, running along the rear of the edifice. This gallery was enclosed on all sides by Venetian blinds, and in summer afforded a cool and agreeable promenade, with a distant prospect of the river winding through a gorge in the hills. It was now appro- priated as a greenhouse, the proper temperature being preserved by tubes filled with hot air, and QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 201 crowded with a great variety of native plants and exotics, some of which were young trees in size. The numerous vases were so arranged as to leave a serpentine walk winding through them from one extremity of the cloister to the other, and so shaded by the foliage of the plants bor- dering it, that one might walk there wholly screened from observation, save when passing by the windows looking into the cells. The evening of the day on which the events recorded in the foregoing chapter had transpired, at length arrived. A roseate hue yet lingering behind the sun suffused the sky, and reflected from the snow through the interstices of the blinds, spread a golden light over the foliage of the plants. The monk, wearied with following the obscure arguments of the old fathers in their polemical controversies, had long since thiv^wn aside his book, and, with his arms folded thoughtfully behind him, had been for the last half hour walking his chamber, revolving in his mind the morning's interview with Eugenie in k3 • 203 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. y ■hiw the chapel, and contemplating its results. The final sum of his reflections was a determination to aid her escape from the religious imprison- ment to which she was subjected, and conduct her to the mansion of her friend, madame Mont- morin, then leave the farther progress of his love, as he already designated his brief and ro- mantic interest in her fate, to fortune. — *' At all events," he said aloud, " she shall not become the victim of this villanous St. Clair. Conscious that my motives in relation to this lovely crea- ture are pure, I will devote myself to her cause ; and," he added solemnly, laying his hand upon his heart, " may the God of unprotected inno- cence judge me as I am true or false ! If she will escape with me, I will safely conduct her to the abode of her maternal friend, and leaving her there secure from further oppression, bid her farewell, perhaps for ever, and forgetting her, pursue the destiny that is before me. Palsied be the heart of that man," he said, with a heightened glow, after pacing the room for se- veral minutes in silence, as if replying to or combating some unworthy mental suggestion. -IBj*- QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 203 " who could take advantage of her artless confix- dence and unprotected state ! Were she other than she is, a proud, rich, vain coquette, placing her honour in the keeping of the first bold cava- lier, playi'^g, like Folly herself, around the net which at length ensnares her — a mere human butterfly of silk and ribands, it would be an in- trigue to be less scrupulously balanced. Heighho ! 'tis a great temptation," he said, in a tone half gay, half serious, " for one to whom laurels won in love are fairer than the bays plucked in war. Alas, that empty honour should stand in my way, and thus baffle me ! Unlike Falstaff", here Cupid bids me on, and honour bids me off*. This bewitching novice, whose sweet form has already been entwined in my arms, is mwe," he said, emphatically, and with a sparkling eye, " yes," he added, in a deep and severe tone, " mine, if I dare be a villain !" In a few moments after- ward, he continued, in a different tone — " Her extreme loveliness and naive manner have so ef- fectually captivated me, at all times sufficiently susceptible to the dark eye of woman, that if I do not call in honour, her orphan state, and her I tl, >'']li|il I } If it- II n 204 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. unsuspecting confidence, and weigh them nicely against that propensity for intrigue that is in me, she would better trust her vestal purity with a Rochester than with me. "Well, women are, at last, but charming toys to amuse our leisure hours withal. If I, who have borne off the prize in so many successful amours, and from beings lovely as the houri of Mohammed's paradise, convey this sweet novice to her friends with the self-denial I propose to myself, I shall have won a greater victory even than all these — a victory over myself. But before I can win I must dis- pose my forces. How the fair novice will ma- nage to elude her keepers passes my compre- hension; but the sex have an instinctive tact in these matters, and we thicker-witted men may safely leave all to them where any plot or mis- chief is going forward. There rings the vesper- bell ! But I must not alarm father Bonaventure by making my appearance in the oratory with his flock. Ha ! I am not alone !" The window of his apartment was at that mo- ment darkened by a passing shadow, and a flower of the iriSj attached to a sprig of myrtle, fell at ■tMimnfM^rxjoeMm QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 205 his feet. Lifting it from the ground, he grace- fully pressed it to his lips, saying, in a tone of gaUantry — " Fair flower de luce, emblem and pledge of promise, I accept the pledge ! Yes, lovely novice," he added, in tones sufficiently audible to be heard by one standing without the open window, " my right hand shall forget its cunning ere I forget the promise I have sacredly pledged to you." Then lifting his eyes, ex- pressive of a secret intelligence, to the window, he added, placing the flower upon his heart — " Goddess of the painted bow, To thee I still prove true ; With all thy tints and purple glow, I boast thy name and beauty too." Then looking towards the window, which was nearly covered by a myrtle, he saw, " through its luxuriant blind," the outline of a female form whose exquisite proportions could not be mis- taken ; but with that caution which the inci- dent of the flower had inspired, he remained on the spot where its fall had arrested him, saying, as he placed the sprig of myrtle in his breast — ** Propitious fates, accept a lover's thanks ! Lo, B?5?= rt } lii I '. ( u \ 206 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade.' What stronger testimonial of requited love need wooer ask ? I will wear this treasure next to my heart, for * Myrtle on the breast or brow, Would lively hope and love avow.' In her own delicate and mystic language, I will assure her of my devotion," he continued, plucking a flower which grew in a vase within the recess of the window. " Here is the snow- drop, the emblem of friendship in adversity ; it is a beautiful and appropriate reply." He cast it through the window, and beheld it drop at the feet of the mysterious visitant. A fair hand hastily caught it up, and the next in- stant an anemone fell upon the floor of the cell. He eagerly seized it, and found a slip of paper wound around the stem. Unrolling it, he read with a beating heart — " Take no rash step. Throwing myself wholly on your honour and ge- nerosity, I consent to leave this hateful convent under your protection. I will meet you by the myrtle when the moon rises. Till then, adieu." QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 207 In a single line below, in the form of a post- script, was added — " You will find the key of your window behind the wooden crucifix in the refectory." The note bore no signature, but, aside from his knowledge of its source, he was assured the elegant Italian characters he so ardently perused could have had no other author than the roman- tic novice. — " I must try and draw her to the window," he said, in the animation of the mo- ment, thoughtlessly, " that I may banquet on her lovely face, softened by this rosy twilight." He approached the grating, and whispered her name. The rustling of the foliage and the light sound of a retreating footstep, convinced him that his mystic correspondent had fled, choosing in this manner to intimate the danger of pro- longing their stolen interview, and at the same time reprove his imprudence, where she herself had practised so much caution. ** The lovely novice has shown more discre- tion than I," he said, retiring from the window and resuming his seat at the table, where, in- stead of the volume which lay open before him. I Ml 208 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK, he began to study the graceful turns of the beautifully-formed characters of the billet, as if each letter had been a flower, conveying in itself a mystic language. The silence of midnight at length reigned within the convent walls, and every eye, save those of the monk and the novice Eugenie was sealed in sleep. The former had just dismissed Zacharie, who had entered his cell to bring the key of the window, for which the young oflicer had sent him, and which he found behind the crucifix, where the novice had probably placed it. Zacharie also informed him that the moon was about rising, and that the carriole and In- dian guide were in readiness at the gate, the keys of which father Bonaventure had consigned to him on retiring, not wishing to be disturbed by their departure. — " He ordered me," continued Zacharie, " to give him back the keys in the morning ; and he bade me say that he left his blessing for thee, and to tell thee that thou hadst best settle thyself down in life in thy youth, for a rolling stone gathers no moss." Zacharie's footsteps had not yet died away QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 209 along the gallery after he left the cell, when the monk applied the key to the padlock, and at once removed the barricade from the window. As he stepped upon the gallery, the rays of the rising moon were visible through the blinds of the greenhouse, brightly silvering the tops of the forest trees on the opposite cliifs. With a throbbing heart, and with his spirits elevated by the romance of his situation, he moved a few steps noiselessly along the cloister, and then awaited in breathless silence the approach of the trusting and artless novice. In a few moments a light footstep approached from the opposite extremity of the cloister, and the impatient youth advanced to embrace the expected partner of his journey ; but he started back, with his hand upon his sword-hilt, and a slight exclamation of surprise and disappoint- ment, when he encountered the figure of a monk, visible by the rays of the lamp which streamed through his window. His first thought was, that father Bonaven- ture, discovering the proposed elopement, had substituted his own person for that of the novice ; !■: • ••4. 5 p lii ^ \ 210 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. but a second reflection, and a closer scrutiny of the height and dimensions of the person before him, convinced him that, multiplied five times, it could not become father Bonaventure. His heart, moreover, aided by that instinct which enables lovers to ascertain in a wonderful man- ner the presence of a beloved object, however invisible its form, and impenetrable its disguise to other optics, assured him that the lovely per- son of the novice, and not father Bonaventure, was concealed beneath that uncouth disguise, and the next moment his arras encircled her, while his bold lips impassionedly sought her own ; but the maiden shrunk from his embrace, hid her face in confusion in the hood of her robe, and seemed about to fly from him. The young soldier, at once alive to his own imprudence, and instantly appreciating her de- licacy, seized her hand, and throwing himself on one knee before her, apologized for his warmth in so modest a manner, and in a voice touched with such sincere regret, that he would have disarmed resentment, even on similar of- QUEB»5C AND NEW YORK. 211 fence, in the bosom of nun Ursule, and express- ed his sorrow that he should have been the cause of wounding her feelings by his rash thoughtlessness. — " Forgive me, sweet Eu- genie," he said, in tones of deep humility ; " it was but a momentary forgetfulness of the sa- cred relation in which I stood towards you as your protector, and also of your unprotected state. Say that you forgive me, Eugenie," he continued, his voice subdued to a melancholy cadence, and rising scarcely above a musical whisper, to which, pleased yet trembling, she listened with downcast eyes and heaving bosom, " breathe the word forgive^ and I will offend no more." *' On that condition, then, you are forgiven," she said, in tones so low, that none but the sup- pliant lover's ears could have caught them. " Thank you — bless you — dearest Eugenie !" he warmly exclaimed ; " from this moment I will be to you only as a brother." " Then, dearest brother," she said, in a live- ly tone, her confidence of manner at once re- stored by his seeming sincerity and deep re- : I 'i \ 1^1 ;^M 212 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. spect, " beware," and her fore finger was raised threateningly, while an arch smile dwelt on her lip, " beware, lest you consider as one of your fraternal privileges the liberty you were now about to take so very cavalierly. I am now on my guard, and not to be taken at vantage, like a certain simple maiden in a certain chapel I wot of; so be a good discreet brother, and I will make up my mind to trust you. If you had not repented, let me tell you, as you did, never fright- ened doe fled faster from the hunter to covert than I should have flown back to my little cell." " 'Twas indeed an escape, fair Eugenie," he said, as they entered his room. " What ! so soon forgotten your fraternal atti- tude ?" she said, glancing at him reprovingly with her dark eyes, whose fire would have kindled a flame in the breast of an anchorite. " Nay, if you are so severe, and will not let me call you neither fair Eugenie nor dear Euge- nie, I must be silent, for my lips will shape no other mode of speech, unless," he added, in a tone of real or affected pique, " I had best call you brother, as your garb would sanction. If QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 213 such be your pleasure, never two speechless clowns jogged together to market more dis- creetly than will you and I ride side by side to Quebec. I'faith, scandal shall have no food for her tongue, if I can help it." " Now you are hurt, brother of mine," she said, laughing ; " but if you will promise to be good humoured on the way, there's no telling what may turn up in your favour : it's hard for our sex to remain long in one mind ; so comfort yourself, my gentle brother, on our well-known fickleness. Now let us leave this hateful prison ; I long to breathe the free air of heaven, if it be at midnight." " No, Eugenie, I will not avail myself of your sex's fickleness, but rather leave my better fortune to your own generous heart." " 'Tis a pretty speech, and prettily spoken, brother. But let us not delay," she said, smiling, and advancing to the door of the cell. " Nay, Eugenie, give me one look from those charming eyes, but one smile from those sweet lips, to assure me that there is peace between us, and," he added, emboldened by the smile on M I ' i fli : ('I i f I' .^' t; \ :i4 214 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. her beautiful mouth as his eye sought and met her own conscious glare, *• grant me one sisterly kiss of forgiveness. ' Before she could resist, he had snatched the boon from her lips, and the next moment was kneeling at her feet. So much audacity, immediately atoned for by such humility, the appeasing, imploring appeal of his eyes, his silence, as if he had offended too deeply for words to avail him, at once disarmed her resentment for an offence so gracefully ex- piated ; and with a reproving shake of the head, and lifting up her fore finger, she granted the forgiveness he so eloquently sought. — " Well, brother, I see you are incorrigible, and I sup- pose I must be lenient; but presume not too much on my good nature. The moon is up ; let us not linger here, but fly," she added, with suddenly-assumed energy. " This moment," he said, taking the lamp, placing himself by her side as she passed through the door. " Let my arm assist you to the car- riole," he added, passing his arm lightly around her. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 215 " No, no, I will lean upon it, good and care- ful brother." Hastily and silently they traversed the pas- sage to the hall, where they found Zacharie in waiting. He immediately opened the doors, and accompanied them across the court to the gate ; before it stood the sleigh, to which were harnessed two small but spirited ponies. "Witli- out speaking, the young soldier assisted the dis- guised novice into it, and after bidding Zacha- rie a warm adieu, and rewarding him mth gold and assurances of favouring his belligerent aspi- rations, he followed himself, and bade the guide drive off with what speed the convent's horses and the heavy condition of the road would peimit. The snow had settled a little during the day, and the track was by this time somewhat bro- ken, so that they glided over the ground with greater facility than father Bonaventure's words promised, when, in the morning, he surveyed the state of the roads from the tower of his convent. The vehicle, for which the traveller had ex- changed his equestrian mode of journeying, was " ! 1'' 1 'I „ t 216 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. a light wooden body, gracefully shaped like a phaeton, with the exception of the front piece, which rose sharp and narrow, three feet in height, terminating in the curved neck and head of a swan, tastefully ornamented with silver. It contained two seats, one of which, in the back part of the carriole, and shut in by its high close sides, was occupied by the travellers, the other by the driver or guide. It was placed on runners, six- teen inches high, shaped like skate-irons, but consisting of a light frame instead of being made soUd, and like them, terminating in a curve in front, carved or cast so as to resemble the head of a serpent. The runners sunk into the snow, which was about two feet in depth, only six inches, leaving the body of the carriole ten inches clear of the surface, over which it glided with delightful rapidity. The back, the sides, and the seats of the car- riage were warmly lined with loose furs and numerous buffalo skins, two of which, placed under the feet of the travellers and drawn up before them, enveloped their entire persons, and effectually protected them from cold, which was *. II QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 217 still intense. The guide was seated in front, wrapped up in a capote of bearskin, and other- wise so completely covered from head to feet with furs, that both form and feature were un- distinguishable, and he more nearly resembled the animal whose hide he wore than a man. The monk, as we shall continue to call our tra- veller, had not yet seen his face or spoken to liim, except when he bade him drive from the convent gate, to which he replied by whip- ping his horses, and uttering the Indian ejacula- tion " eh!" an interjection with him expres- sive either of assent or dissent, and indeed of almost every emotion. For some time they rode forward in silence, the merry bells around the neck of the horses making the otherwise-dreary road cheerful by their lively music. At first they glided along the surface of the ground with the facility of a boat sailing on a smooth lake; but after they had travelled a few miles, the road became in- tersected by furrows, called cahots, formed in the snow by the winds heaving its surface into VOL. I. L & i = 218 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. \: )])'■ innumerable small ridges. They were tlie most numerous where the road wound through gorges down which the wind swept unobstructed. The motion of the carriole, at these places, was like that of a boat pitching in a short sea, and well known to carriolers ; often, when drawn over a succession of them, like that motion, they pro- duce in the unpractised traveller, a sensation of nausea. Our travellers however, experienced but little annoyance ; and after clearing the de- file, their road became once more even, and their speed proportionably increased. The monk, now putting aside the furs from his face, address- ed his taciturn guide, who, for the two hours they had been on the road, had exhibited no other signs of life than were indicated by the mechanical rise and fall of his right arm every five minutes, to lay his whip upon the back of his team, and an occasional interjection of en- couragement to them, as they toiled up some more laborious hill. " When do you cross the river, guide ?" he asked, as the horses were toiling up one of these ascents. .>"- i QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 2\B ** Eh ! four league, by-um-by," he replied, in harsh guttural tones, without turning his head, and holding up four fingers by way of il- lustration. " We shall soon accomplish that," said the monk, wishing to converse with, and learn something of his guide ; " these horses of yours do not appear to know what fatigue is." This compliment to his steeds did not, how- ever, draw any reply from the taciturn driver. " Is it not near morning ?" asked the monk, making a second attempt to open a conversa- tion. " Sun come two hours, by-um-by," replied the man, elevating two fingers, and then flourishing his whip over the heads of the ponies, as they reached the top of the hill. Obeying the hint, the horses darted down the opposite descent with the rapidity of reindeers. " What is your name, guide ?" asked the monk, as they were gliding over a level tract, after having descended the hill, with speed still unabated. l2 li! \\\ I'l ■i rl 220 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. i i i *' Name, eli !" he grunted ; " Indian callee Ohgucsse, Canadian callee Gun." ** If your qualities, worthy Gun, do credit to your sponsors, you will be a valuable auxiliary on the road in case we are attacked. How is the ice where we are to cross the river, think you ? It is, no doubt, strong enough to bear the weight of our carriole ?" ** Eh ! by-um-by, strong 'nough," said Ohguesse, with a nod of assent. *' Will it bear us if we remain in the carriole ?" asked the monkr " Eh !" was the satisfactory reply of the In- dian, who wrapped the collar of his capote closely about his lace and ears, and more firmly grasped his reins, as if he would thereby inti- mate that he was already wearied by his unusual loquacity. Defeated in the attempt to open a conversa- tion with his guide, the young soldier determin- ed to make an attack on a quarter where, per- haps, success was still more problematical. During the first hour of the journey, he enjoy- ed in silence the exquisite consciousness of the QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 221 !■ I presence of the charming novice. The slightest touch of her little feet, as they nestled in the same fur beside his own, communicated to his veins a thrilling sensation of delight ; and as he felt her soft breathing upon his cheek, and listened to the audible beating of her heart, which he compared to a bird fluttering to escape from beneath the folds of her robe, he feared to speak, lest the charm on his senses should be broken. A sound, like a smothered laugh, at the curt answer of Ohguesce, coming from the fur hood of the maiden, encouraged him to change the direction of his battery. Leaving Ohguesse to atone for his extraordinary garrulity by as long silence as he chose to preserve, he turned to his fair companion, and gently repeated her name ; but to reiterated repetitions of " Eugenie! sweet Eugenie !" there was no reply ; and be- lieving, by her soft regular breathing, that she slept, and that his ears had deceived him, he wrapped himself in his furs, and in a few mo- ments was also sound asleep. - It is, to be sure, altogether unprecedented in ■I ir] V\ r 222 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. the annals of romance, from the days of the Troubadours down to the present time, for an author to put his hero and heroine to sleep, and thus leave them, sleep, hunger, and fatigue, be- mg three human weaknesses, to which genuine heroes and heroines are presumed never to yield ; but our hero and heroine are not superhuman, but subject to like passions with ordinary mor- tals, like them enduring hunger and thirst, cold and heat, pain and fatigue ; therefore one of them having slept but three hours for the last three days, and the other having been wakeful half the night in anticipation of her escape, they very naturally yielded to the soporific motion of the carriole, and availed themselves of that restorative to the frames of weary mortals, which nature has provided ; this was the more neces- sary, as on the morrow they were to undergo additional excitement and fatigue, for which a good sound sleep is doubtless an excellent pre- parative. Trusting that they will awake at the beginning of the next chapter refreshed, and fore-armed to encounter the various adventures which may befal them as the principal per- QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 22S sonages of this tale, we will leave them to their repose and to the skill of the taciturn Ohguesse. CHAP. XI. The Pursuit. 1 When the travellers awoke, which very consi- derately they did when their presence had be- come necessary to the further progress of our tale, it was already dawn, and they found, on inquiring of their guide, that they had come six leagues, and that the point at which they were to cross the river was but a mile before them. The morning was clear and cold, and the pros- pect that met their eyes every where dreary ; but its desolation was increased by the earliness of the hour, the leafless forests, and the wide wastes of snow ; the Chaudiere, which formed a ^^1 I h . A 224 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. prominent feature in the scenery, was only dis- tinguishable from the land by its more even ap- pearance and destitution of trees. " Had we not best lighten the carriole by crossing the stream on foot ?" inquired the yoimg officer of Ohguesse, when at length the guide turned from the main road, and began to ap- proach the river in a direct line. " Eh ! um ground strong, so um ice strong," replied the phlegmatic Indian, his swarthy fea- tures, now visible by the daylight, as unmoved as those of an automaton. He drew up his horses on the verge of the frozen river, leaped lightly to the ground, and advancing to his leader's head, prepared to lead him upon the ice. Before he left the carriole, he had disencumbered himself of his outward covering of furs, and his person and form be- came plainly visible to the monk, who was struck with his remarkably agile and athletic appearance. He was full six feet in height, straight as an arrow, and very slender, possess- ing just such a figure as, in civilized life, would be termed genteel. His cheeks were attenuated. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK, 225 and his features regular, but too harsh to be handsome : a pair of black eyes glittered be- neath his arched brows with an active restless expression, and alone gave intelligence to a countenance, the chief expression of which was that settled melancholy peculiar to his race ; his face bore more of the traits of the Andalusian peasant than of the American Indian, although the well-known characteristics of the singular race of men were too indelibly stamped upon his physiognomy for his aboriginal birthright to be called in question. His taciturnity evidently did not proceed from intellectual dulness, for his quick and sagacious eyes seemed to observe and comprehend every thing passing around him, but rather from that peculiar feature of educa- tion, which teaches the Indian warrior that dig- nity and courage are slow of speech and of few words, or, as it is expressed in their own figur- ative language, " the warrior talks with his arm and eye, but women and birds are known by their voices." Why are you so silent, Ohguesse ?" asked l3 «< i' .1 i'f] I ■ »f 226 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. the monk, looking sternly in his face, after having twice suggested the expediency of taking the horses from the carriole, and dragging it over the river, and receiving no other reply than the interjectional * eh ; ' "eh is not to get us out of the river if i/e once get into it, Ohguesse. Why do you not answer ?" " Eagle only scream when he strike um game! jackdaw never strike um game — scream all time ! Ohguesse, eagle — monk, jackdaw ! Ohguesse no priest." " A most sound and potent conclusion, I must confess, and withal, a very complimentary reply to your fellow-travellers," said the monk, as he got out to try the strength of the ice. After sounding it in several places, he added, in a peremptory tone — " Lead the horses and carriole over, Ohguesse, and wait on the opposite shore : we will walk." He glanced at the carriole and its pile of furs, beneath which neither foot nor hand was visible, ari then advancing to the sleigh, said — " Will you cross with me on foot, fair Eugenie? I fear to trust too much weight in the carriole." QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 227 " Willingly," she said, exposing, for the first time since their departure from the con- vent, her face to the gaze of the young soldier. As she encountered his dark eyes, her cheeks were suffused with conscious bliishes; and as he advanced to assist her to alight, and extended both arms for the purpose, she said, laughingly — " No, no, not in your arms, fair sir ; I have feet, and can use them." *• They are very little ones, Eugenie, and will not support you through the deep snow. I can take you over as easily as a nurse would carry an infant." i " Art so good a nurse, brother? Really I had not believed it, if your own lips had not assured me of it. What, piqued again! Nay then, I will be as sober and as sinless of any approaches to playfulness as nun Ursule herself." "Eh! horse ready!" grunted Ohguesse, light- ly springing into the carriole, and starting the horses forward so suddenly at the same time, that the monk, who was standing on the lunner, was compelled to remain with Eugenie, and share the fate of horse and carriole. i i .*r IP I :il 22S QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. i \!. , t. I. 1^; an With great velocity, Ohguesse standing the while upon his seat, and urging the horses for- ward by blows and cries, the sleigh glided over the frozen river until it had nearly reached the middle of it, when all at once the leader was ingulphed, and nearly dragged the shaft horse after him ; but the Indian checked him on the very verge of the chasm, by throwing him back on his haunches with a sudden and tremendous exertion of physical power. At the same in- stant, he leaped on the ice, and cast a lasso or running noose, always carried by carriolers for such emergencies, over the drowning horse's head, and tightened it until he ceased to breathe. The animal, which till then had been kicking and struggling violently, to the great danger of his companion, and the increase of his own peril, now became motionless, as if dead : floating to the surface from the buoyancy caused by this summary mode of strangulation, he was drawn out by main force from the air-vent into which he had broken, end laid upon the solid ice. Ohguesse then ver/ deliberately loosed the rope from his neck, and the little horse began to re- W^^TEBEC AND NEW YORK. 2^ spire, at first with great difficulty, but in a few minutes, he rose to his feet, apparently, saving a little fright and a cold ablution, to which, however, the Canadian horses of any experience are accustomed, as lively and in as good travel- ling condition as before. The sinking of the horse, the skilful checking of the carriole, the application of the noose, and the rescue of the animal, all passed so quickly, that the monk had neither time to comprehend the extent of their danger, nor leap from the sleigh with Eu- genie in his arms, or offer his assistance to the active and experienced Indian, before it was no longer required. This singular and to him novel operation was beheld by the traveller with surprise. Ohguesse, observing it, said quietly, as he signed to them to take their seats again in the carriole — ** Choke him — save um life !" Eugenie declined getting into the vehicle again; and the monk, bidding Ohguesse drive forward to the bank, aided the footsteps of his lovely charge, who neither by shriek nor word betrayed alarm during the imminent danger she had been in, and only showed her sex's depend- ■>;. '1 ' [J Mi ■ 1 II)'. I l1] i ^kn 230 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. ance on the more lordly being, man, by clinging instinctively to her companion. He, in his turn, asserted his manly prerogative by clasping her in his arms, when for a moment he thought, by the cracking of the ice around them, that they were all about to be ingulphed together. The Indian, resuming his upright attitude on the front seat of the carriole, first having turned the leader loose to follow in the track of the vehicle, guided his remaining horse aside from the chasm, and uttering a shrill cry, urged him forward at his former speed. He had nearly gained the shore in safety, when the travellers, who were slowly following on foot, beheld him suddenly check the wild career of his steed, then hesitate for an instant ; the next moment, cheer- ed and encouraged by a loud and prolonged cry, they saw the horse leap a fissure several feet wide, formed by the shelving of the ice where it had been broken and piled by the current, which at this place flowed unusually swift ; and both uttered an exclamation of surprise and alarm as the carriole bounded over the gap after the flying horstt, who did not cease his wild QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 231 career until he had galloped half way up the opposite bank of the river. Hastening forward, and avoiding the fissure by ascending the stream a few yards, they re- gained the carriole, and under the skilful guidance of Ohguesse, were once more on their way. Their road now lay along the banks of the river; the sun had appeared above the horizon, and the air became perceptibly milder. Stopping occasionally during the day at some lonely farm-house to refresh themselves and their horses, on which occasions Eugetiie abandoned her clerical disguise, and was repre- sented by the monk as a novice on her way to a convent in Quebec, an hour before sunset they were slowly ascending a hill, from the summit of which was a distant view of the St. Law- rence, when Ohguesse, whose restless eyes werr constantly on the alert, uttered his usual excla- mation " Eh !" but now with an accent of sur- prise. The lovers were at that moment absorbed in a low and very interesting conversation, in which Cupid was doing his best to make execution in I 232 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. I 1'^ I. r I 1* t ■■'} ''J N! I lis"; m both of their hearts, — " Why will you not an* swer to the name of Walter then ?" asked Euge- nie, continuing the conversation to which we have just alluded, but which it is not necessary to record. " Because I fear you "/ill think more of that Norman knight De Lancy than " *' Yourself, brother," she said, in a tone of raillery ; " so you have a spice of jealousy in your composition, I see." " I know not if it be jealousy or no," he said, in a low tone of tenderness; " but I would rather hear those sweet lips pronounce my own name." * Then tell me that name, mysterious brother of mine, and if it is a pretty one, and not Peter nor Paul, Moses nor Aaron, I will, if it so pleases you, try and teach the lips aforesaid to speak it." " Edward — call me Edward." " Edward !" she repeated, in a voice of thril- ling sweetness ! " 'tis a sweet name ! I think I shall like it better than Walter." If Edward himself," he said, in a voice half (( QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 23S serious, " be as dear to Eugenie as the memory of Walter, then " Here the lover's speech, which doubtless would have been a model for all future lovers on such occasions, was interrupted by the gut- tural ejaculation of Gun, who at the same time indicated with his finger the 'objects that had broken his habitual taciturnity. " What do you see, Ohguesse ?" he asked. " One, two, four men ! horse much break um down ; no come yet, by-um-by." The monk, comprehending the Indian's mean- ing r& "her by the direction of his finger and eyes than by his words, turned and saw on the oppo- site shore four horsemen travelling southward at a slow and weary pace. — " One of them is the peasant Luc Giles," said the monk, survey- ing them attentively ; " I would recognise his gaunt frame and stoop in the shoulders, which I particularly noted as he rode off from the con- vent, among a thousand ; those are his mates with him, as he terms them. They are now re- turning, Eugenie, as that singular boy, Zacha- rie, said they would soon do, crestfallen, and no 1 234 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. ) ill Si ill ■■'I! doubt aware that they have been deceived by the lad's address." *' See!" exclaimed Eugenie, who became equally interested with her companion in the motions of the party, " one of them stops and points towards us ; and now they are all looking this way." There were visible certain signs among the party, which convinced the monk that the car- riole had not only attracted their notice, but had become an interesting object of attention. " They will pursue us !" exclaimed Eugenie ; ** one of them has already dismounted, and is descending the bank to the ice. See ! another tries in vain to urge his horse down the preci- pice, and also dismounts. Blessed Virgin pro- tect us ! How can you resist, Edward, at such a disadvantage ?" she added, observing him bring his pistols round to the ready grasp of his hand ; " oh, do not think of resisting ! Hasten, Ohguesse, and get up this long and tedious hill ; we may yet gain the top before they can reach us on foot." *' Be not alarmed, dear Eugenie," said the QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 235 young officer, pressing her hand, which slie had unconsciously, in the anxiety of her feelings, placed in his ; " Ohguesse, who will po doubt prove himself a serviceable gun on this occasion, this brace of pistols, and myself, will make our numbers equal. Ha ! one of them is already on the ice." ** If that be their leader, Edward, who is foremost, and from his size and clamour I take it to be him you call Luc Giles, he is not se- conded by his men, who point to their horses, and seem to plead their broken-down condition. Marie ! Heaven be thanked !'* she suddenly ejaculated, yet instantly crossing herself for ut- tering an exclamation of joy at the event she beheld. The individual to whom she alluded, and who was indeed Luc Giles himself, not being able to make his own horse leave the road to take to the river, had gone back, after trying the strength of the ice, and mounted one of those belonging to his companions. Forcing him, by dint of spurring, much swearing, and a shower of blows, upon the ice, he was galloping across li! 236 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. I: I the river alono, when, all at once, horse and rider sunk before the eyes of the pursued, and drew from Eugenie unconsciously the exclama- tion of gratitude she had uttered. " Hola, Ohguesse," cried the monk, " we must not let him perish!" He sprung from the carriole as he spoke, and with youthful ardour and impetuosity, would have hastened to the aid of his pursuer, when he beheld the com- panions of the horseman running with loud cries to his rescue : he detained the carriole on the brow of the hill, which they had now gain- ed, long enough to see them drag the drown- ing man from the water, although with the loss of his horse. Congratulating Eugenie on their escape, he pointed out to her the St. Lawrence far to the north, glittering in the beams of the setting sun like a belt of silver, and then ordered Ohguesse to drive forward with the best speed his horses could exert. As the night gathered around them, the wind, which had been light during the day, in- creased in violence, drifting the fine particles of snow (by the habitans termed la poud/re) into QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. S37 their faces, the intensely-frozen crystals inflicting extreme pain whenever they came in contact with the skin. Frequently it swept past them with the strength of a hurricane, lifting light clouds of frozen snow from the surface, along which it was whirled in wild eddies, and so thickening the atmosphere, that both horses and driver became bewildered and unable to hold on their way. The night grew dark, and their path became every moment ^ :re uncertain. The occasional howl of a wolf could be heard in the forest not far from the road ; and the fall of huge trees, torn up by their roots, crashing and echoing through the woods, the hooting of scared owls, and the mingled roar and whistling of the wind, contributed to the dreariness and gloom of their situation. Forgetful of his own comfort, the ^ oung sol- dier was altogether absorbed in protecting his companion, and seeking, by every tender and assiduous attention that love or chivalry could suggest, to shield her person from the effects of the rude storm, which, although the sky was '*■] 238 <^U£BEC AND NEW YORK. cloudless, was more severe than if accompanied with falling snow. At length the wind and driving snow became insupportable, and the intellects of Ohguesse were so bewildered that he cculd proceed no farther. Dropping the reins as the horses, x'^n- able to continue in the road, voluntarily stop- ped, he said, with his customary ejaculation — " Eh! horse um no go — Ohguesse no see — priest sleep in woods by-um-by to-night." The traveller at this announcement shaded his eyes from the icy blast with his hand, and looked around upon the gloomy forest in which they were blockaded by the drifts. Satisfied from his survey that it would be impossible to proceed much farther unless the wind abated, he was about to communicate the necessity of halting to his companion, when the Indian sud- denly, and with a degree of animation he had not before exhibited, said — " Eh ! Ohguesse smell um supper !" « The monk, who could not boast a similar ex- ercise of the olfactory powers, advised him to go forward, tbal^ being the direction in which QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 239 his nasal organ was levelled, and see if any habitation was near them. Ohguesse, after snuffing up the wind once or twice, like a hound when he scents his game, left the carriole, and soon disappeared in the darkness. In a few moments he returned, and without speaking, re- sumed the reins, and urged forward the horses by dint of beating. In a short time, after ascending a slight eminence, their eyes, were gladdened by tne glimmer of a light in the window of a cottage not far before them. The he -tow moved forward with good will, as if siiaxjiig with the travellers the prospect of food and shelter. As they approached the dwelling, which stood near the road, the voices of two or three children were heard mingling in a song ; and although the carriole drove close up to the door, it still continued, as if their own music had drowned that of the merry sleigh-bells, which otherwise should have notified them of the approach of strangers and travellers. " What a contrast this cheerfully-lighted cottage and these happy voices," said Eugenie, " to our dreary situation a few minutes ago ! f- \y 1 :i 1 240 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. A': 1 "'ii But stay, Edward ! Ohguesse, do not inter- rupt them ! Let i!3 listen to their song before we enter ; it is a familiar one, and recals days of childhood. You have no idea, Edward," she touchingly continued, " how delightful are the emotions awakened by this simple Canadian soiig, after having heard for so many months the monotonous and lugubrious psalms and holy ballads of the nuns. Listen, there is welcome in the words." Yielding to the wish of Eugenie, the monk- paused at the door, wliile she leaned on his arm and listened to the youthful singers, who were aided at inters als in the higher parts of their hymn, by a remarkably soft female voice — " 'Tis merry to hear at evening time. By the blazing hearth, the sleigh-bells chime ; And to know each bound of the iteed brings nigher The friend for whom we have heaped the fire. Light leap oxir hearts, while the listening hound Jumps forth to hail him with bark and bound. •• Tis he ! and blithly the gay bells sound. As his sleigh glides over the frozen ground ; Hark I he has passed the dark pine wood, And skims like a bird o'er the ice-bound flood ; QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. Now he catches the gleam from the cahin door, Which tells that his toilsome journey's o'er. " Our cabin's small, and coarse our cheer, But love has spread the banquet here ; And childhood springs to be caress'd By our well-belov'd and welcome guest. "ri ith a smiling brow his tale he tells. While the urchin rings the merry sleigh-bells. " From tJie cedar swamp the gaunt wolves howl, From the hciiow oak loud whoops the owl, Scared by the crash of the falling tree : But these sounds bring terror no more to me ; No longer I listen with boding fear. The sleigh-bells' distant chime to hear *." 241 (( Here is indeed welcomg ," said the monk, as the song ceased; " let us enter this abode of happiness and hospitality." Springing from the carriole, he knocked at the door, which was immediately opened by a pale and interesting-looking woman, wrapped in * This picturesque Canadian song, by Mrs. Moodie, the riuthor met with, for the first time, in an interesting and highly-talented work, entitled " The Canadas," by R. Montgonery Martin, to whose researches he is also indebted for much valuable information on those countries VOL. I. M 2i2 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. Ml : a grey mantelet, and bearing a light in her hand. Without betraying surprise at thei^ sudden ap- pearance, like one accustomed to exercise the duties of hospitality to strangers, she welcomed them with a quiet smile on her cheerful coun- tenance. We should delight to draw the picture of do- mestic happiness that here offers itself to our pen, did the limits to which fashion has pre- scribed the modern novelist, viz. two volumes duodecimo, allow him to turn aside to every fountain, wander through every rural lane, and linger under every shady tree, that might tempt him from the path it is especially his business to pursue ; but, providentially for both author and reader, times are changed since the novel- reading public were content to read an eight, or, peradventure, ten volume novel, such as the in- defatigable Richardson turned from his pen with merciless celerity; the modern palate, happily, is contented with two thin volumes, and surfeit- ed with three ; therefore, although authors may have materiel floating in their brains suflicient, if judiciously diffused, for ten, or even a round QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 243 dozen of duodecimos, by this improvement in the tastes of the present generation, they are necessitated to condense, or compress, as it were, their abundant stock of ideas into the substan- tial compass of the aforesaid brace of tomes. This is intimated lest, to the disparagement of modern novelists, it migh,: be thought that the cause of this modification of the public tastes lay in the depreciation and diminution of current coin of authors' brains, and not in its true source, the public themselves. The reception of the travellers was charac- teristic of the Canadian peasantry; and they were at a loss which most to admire, the air of domestic comfort prevailing within the cottage, the excellence and abundance of the fare cheer- fiilly spread before them on a table covered with a snow-white napkin, or the lightsomeness of heart and unaffected hospitality of manners dis- played by the peasant and his wife. The Canadian peasant, or habitan — especially is it true of those who are of French origin — is happily free from that servility which is the pro- m2 ! I ly 1 I !■ 'i i -j(i 244 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. II h,. '^ii minent feature of their class in Europeaiv states ; on the contrary, he possesses manly freedom of speech and action, natural ease of manner, buoy- ancy of spirits, and a lively and enthusiastic temper. He is, moreover, proprietor of the soil, cultivating his own little farm, and enjoying the comforts of life as the reward of his individual industry. Religious, intelligent, industrious, and peculiarly susceptible of an attachment to do- mestic enjoyments — to the (]:rowth of which vir- tue the long Canadian winters, when the hearth becomes their little world, in a great measure contributes — the Canadian peasantry afford a striking illustration of the ennobling power of free institutions when operating on the interests of such a class of men, elevating them at once to the rank and dignity in the scale of society which is their birthright, but from the exercise of which feudal tyranny, by levelling them with the brutes, has hitherto alone debarred them. QUEBEC /.ND NEW YORK. 245 CHAP. XII. The March, After resting three hours beneath the hospit- able roof of the peasant, the wind having sub- sided, and the calm clear beauty of the night inviting them to continue their journey, the tra- vellers once more set forward. The horses re- freshed, moved freely over the road, the bells that hung on their harness jingling merrily, and infusing that sort of spirit into their motions, which the music of the drum and fife is known to produce in a body of soldiers. The young officer and his fair companion seemed also to have imbibed new life and animation, and yield- ing to the exhilarating influence of the time, conversed cheerfully together, the merry laugh of Eugenie often ringing above the music of the I I' 1 u 246 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. merry bells. Ohguesse, too, judging from his frequent ejaculatory addresses to his steeds, ap- peared to have been thawed into u more social mood by the hospitality of the peasant's board and hearth; and altogether, with high spirits, the carriolers glided swiftly on their way, lighted by the stars shining with that sparkling bril- liancy which they emit only in winter. They had been about half an hour on their road when the northern lights suddenly appeared with extraordinary brilliancy, dimming the stars, and diffusing a soft glow like that of twilight over the earth. With an exclaination of delight, Eugenie drew ^.he attention of her companion to the beautiful changes their corruscations pre- sented. At one moment they would assume the form of a waving spear of pale flame ; then shooting upward, and expanding till they over- reached the zenith, become a broad belt of light, which slowly faded into the sky. The next mo- ment, sheets of light, of various colours and de- grees of brilliancy, floated across the heavens, and broke into masses, that appeared like golden banners and plumes of warriors waving and dan- --r>>: QVEBEC AND NEW YORK. 247 cing along the horizon. These gradually disap-. peared, assuming a thousand fantastic shapes before they entirely vanished, but were instantly replaced by gorgeous beams of purple and golden light, radiating from a bright central spot, and spreading in a vast resplendent star over half the firmament, while columns of pale beautiful light rose perpendicularly from the horizon, as if to support the starry dome. Suddenly the whole magnificent temple would disappear, leaving " not a wreck behind." Other forms and strange shapes, more brilliant and richly covered with prismatic hues, as if a rainbow had been dis- solved, and its fragments scattered over the northern skies, succeeded, and these were yet followed by others, until their eyes were dazzled and their imaginations bewildered by the wild magnificence of the scene. After assuming a myriad of shapes, this gorgeous phenomenon, in which Eugenie imagined she could trace innu- merable graceful outlines of familiar objects, en- tirely disappeared, leaving the northern skies cold, dark, and cheerless as before. The dawn found the travellers within two 24& (JUEDEC AND NEW YORK. I ' -mi leagues of Quebec, and near the St. Lawrence, which spread its unfrozen bosom before them like a lake. As the sun rose, the opposite shores of this majestic river were visible two leagues distant, white with snow, yet variegated by cottages, churches, and villages; while on their right, far to the north east, rose the towers and citadel of Quebec, crowning a lofty promontory, which stood boldly out into the broad river like an island of rock. The travellers gazed on the distant city with various and mingled emotions. In the mind of Eugenie it was associated with home and its en- dearments ; and her eyes sparkled with pleasure as she pointed out familiar objects, and spoke of her return to the abode of her childhood and youth, and to the arms of her maternal friend. Her anticipated happiness was nevertheless al- loyed by the reflection that it was to be pur- chased by a separation, which, so busy had love been in her young heart, she began to contem- plate with sadness. The young soldier viewed the proud citadel as the theatre of war, and the .^ gathering-point of armies, its walls loon to re- QUt:BEC AND NEW YORK. 249 Round with the roar of cannon, and where im- portant events were speedily about to transpire; he contemplated it as a soldier, and as a foe to its masters : with his national feelings however were mingled others, with which Cupid had more to do than Mars ; there he was to take leave of Eugenie, the lovely partner of his journey, the sharer of its fatigues, the partici- pator in all its dangers; it was therefore not without emotion, which fo"nd ready sympathy in her own bosom, that he said — *' There, dear Eugenie, is your journey's end ; my dream t^f happiness is terminated — it was too exquisite to last. This morning, Eugenie, we must part ; I to go whither my fortunes lead me, you to the embraces of those you love : forget me, and be happy." ** Edward," said the novice, laying her hand upon his arm, and speaking in a soft tone of re- proof, " why will you talk so stT.v.jely? Do not imbitter by your sad words the last hour we are to be together. Never can I forget the debt of gratitude I owe y'v)U." '-1 ! i.^f 250 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. III 11^ il]^ ■^Hkih ^m- ffi|i»i i'' ■' 1' \i ** Gratitude, Eugenie !" he repeated bitterly, " only gratitude ?" ' > Eugenie blushed deeply, and was about to re- ply with drooping eyelids, but with an arch ex- pression on her lips that contradicted the mute and timid glances of her eyes, when Ohguesse drew up at a cabin on the verge of the water, and tuniing inquiringly to the monk, said — " Priest hab boat, eh?" The monk looked around, and saw that they were at a small landing-place or ferry-house, near which, attached to a rude flotilla, swung a batteau, capable of containing a dozen persons. Under the active superintendence of Ohguesse, the boat was soon ready to receive its passengers. Before leaving the carriole, the monk examined the direc- tions for his route given him by the chevalier De Levi, and ascertained that he was opposite the residence of the priest Guise, which was on the north side of the river a few mil'^s above Que- bec, and that the ferry-boat would land him at the hamlet near which it was situated. Reward- ing the faithful Ohguesse for his services, and bidding him adieu, the travellers exchanged the QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 251 carriole for the less comfortable and more dan- gerous batteaUj and after a perilous passage tjirough masses of ice, constantly floating by, and momentarily threatening to crush their boat, which was only saved from destruction by the dexterity and experience of two Canadian boat- men, they at length gained the northern shore. The abode of the priest Guise was in the only remaining wipg of an antiquated brick chapel, which at an earlier period had been constructed by the missionaries for their abori- ginal converts ; it was built on the side of 3, rocky terrace, and so near the water, that the river washed its walls. Proceeding for a quar- ter of a mile by a rude path along the shore, the travellers, after ascending a few natural steps in the rock, came to an open gate in a high wall enclosing the edifice. Entering it, they traversed a covered passage, and came to a door at its extremity, which was closed and locked. Applying for admission with that good will which their fatigue and the severity of the season ren- dered expedient, their appeal was answered by a tall swarthy man in the garb of a priest, witli ir U i 252 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 'J exceedingly penetrating grey eyes and harsh features, who, without inviting them to enter, waited in austere silence for them to make known their business. " This is the abode of the cure Guise ?" ob- served the monk, interrogatively. " I am the cure Guise, and this is my abode," he replied, in a voice that corresponded with his features. " Then it is with you my business lies," said the monk, without noticing the rudeness of his reception. The cure grumbled something in the way of an invitation to enter ; and replacing the bar upon the door, preceded them with an impatient stride towards a small room, through the open door of which the travellers beheld, with no little degree of pleasure, a fire burning with a bright and cheerful blaze. They entered the room, which was ong and narrow, with a low ceiling, and a single window commanding a pros- pect of the river and Quebec. Without cere- mony they advanced to the fire, while their host, closing the door, seated himself at a small table QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 253 near the fireplace, whereon, it being noon, stood a pitcher of water, a broiled fish, and a loaf of brown bread ; in the discussion of these, from their dilapidated condition, it was very apparent he had been interrupted by the arrival of the travellers, and to this circumstance they were charitably disposed to attribute his ill humour. Without noticing them, he applied himself dili- gently to his repast, and by the time they had expelled the cold fro^ their limbs, the fish, water, and bread, had disappeared within the copious jaws of the reverend cure ; then turning round, for his back had been towards them during his meal, he looked more complacently upon his guests, eying them nevertheless with very close scrutiny. Eugenie, by the advice of the young officer, had resumed her disguise, and muffled in her cowl and furs, passed very well as a priest, though a rather diffident one, and somewhat small of stature. During the scrutiny of the priest, she shrunk as much as possible behind her companion, who, apprehensive that her timidity would lead to the detection of her dis- 254 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. ^^Hi^^HBt i ^^^^Hl ^B^^IH ' f 1 M 1 1 guise, abruptly addressed his host — " Thou knowest the chevalier De Levi, brother?" The prieF' started to his feet at the name, bent his ever fixedJy on the speaker, and cau- tiously git icixig his eyes at the disguised novice, replied evasively — " I know a holy man whom men call the father Etienne." " Then thou knowest the chevalier De Levi. He bade me give you this packet," said the monk, placing the correspondence of the cheva- lier in his hands. The priest ran his eye over the superscrip- tions of the letters, glancing at intervals at his guest. Catching his own address on one of the epistles, he hastily tore the seal, and perused it with an excited countenance ; then approach- ing the disguised soldier, he said — ** Brother, thou art welcome ; and for the news of which thou art the bearer, doubly so. The time has at last come, when the dignity of the Church shall be restored, and the Canadas be free from the yoke of heretics. Where left you the army of invaders, who come friends and not enemies to Canada ?" QUEBEC AND NEW YORK, 255 " Within four days they will be on the op- posite shore, ready to co-operate with the other division. Can you give me any information of the movements of general Montgomery ?" ** There is a rumour that he has already cap- tured Montreal, and is on his march to Quebec ; but I gave no credence to it, not being informed of the invasion. The news you now bring ren- ders it probable." '* It is without doubt true," said the soldier, with confidence. " Where is your governor, sir Guy Carleton ?" " With the troops near Montreal, endeavour- ing to defend it and the surrounding country against any attacks of the colonists. If Mon- treal be already in your hands, he will doubtless return to Quebec by forced marches. The city is at this moment nearly defenceless ; and if co- lonel Arnold would cro^s tlie river to-morrow, it would fall into his hands without a struggle for its defence," " If Montgomery can out-general Carleton, and gain a march on him," observed the young ofiicer, *' the city will fall into his hands before li S56 QUEBfiC AND NEW YORK. Arnold arrives; but it is important that he should be informed of our approach before Carle- ton can learn it." ** The fate of the countrj' depends on the possession of ni 1 I s^. V^o. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) &0 .^ v\^^ ^ ^ <^ 1.0 1.1 mm jm ^ US, 12.0 IL25 1 1.4 1.6 Hiotograiiiic Sciences Corporation 23 WBT MAW iTRIET WnSTM.N.Y. USSO (716) t72.4S03 276 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. of much accurate information^ when I beheld a priest the bearer of colonel Arnold's communi- cations ; but now I shall learn all. Sit with me on this buffalo's robe, which is both my bed and sofa, and let me hear what tidings, good or ill, you bring from my gallant colonel." At once relieved from any embarrassment, which, as a stranger, he might have anticipated on meeting with general Montgomery, by the affability and simplicity of his address, he forth- with detailed to him, with a brevity and intelli- gence, and a knowledge of military tactics which pleased while it surprised him, the character of the re-enforcement on its way, the number of efficient men he might depend upon, and the probable time of their arrival at Point Levi, and junction with his own forces. He also informed him of the march of the British army, of their number and condition, and finally gave him, briefly and pleasantly, a history of his adven- tures. The communication of the young American was received by the chief with undisguised gra- tification ; and his eye glowed with sanguine QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 277 anticipations as, in turn, he eloquently laid his plan of operations against Quebec before his guest, whose intrepidity, intelligence, and the knowledge of the business of a soldier he had betrayed in his remarks, had inspired his entire confidence. ** Now, my young friend, as you hold no commission under colonel Arnold, I shall insist on attaching you to my sta£P, appointing you as one of my a7ds. What say you to sharing my laurels, young sir ?" he added, smiling and tak- ing his hand. The young officer pressed it in silence ; but the proud glance of his dark eyes, and the sud- den sufiusion of his brow spoke deeper grati- tude than any words, however well chosen, could have expressed ; it was the grateful ac- knowledgment of the heart, not merely of the tongue. General Montgomery was flattered by the dis- play of emotions so praiseworthy in the cb^'val- rous young man, and felt additional assurance that his appointment had not been misplaced. Brave and intrepid men read each other at a 278 aUEBEC AND NEW YORK. glance : while he surveyed his calm forehead, and listened to the manly tones of his voice as he related the business of his mission, he felt that he was in the presence of no ordinary spi- rit, and with one kindred to his own. — ** Now, my young major," he said, after a few moments' discussion of the plans he had detailed, " you must be fatigued, and we will, for the remain- der of the night, share this hairy couch toge- ther ; it may not be so tempting as you have found among the monks, to whose arguments in favour of leading a monkish life, I think, you a while since observed you had wellnigh yielded. But pray, why look you so intently towards the door ? Have you a brother monk without ?" " Only the arguments I spoke of, general, in the shape of a pair of black eyes, fortified by a pair of sweet lips." " Surely the novice you tell m ju so ro- mantically eloped with cannot be in camp ?" " She is now in waiting by the fire without the tent, and I doubt not, somewhat impatient at my long absence." A Cleopatra in the train of my young (( QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 279 Mark Antony ! It's an ominous beginning of your military career," said the general, playfully. " Nevertheless," he added, shaking his head disapprovingly, " she must be admitted. But what can be done with her ? I cannot well make an aid-de-camp of a petticoat." " I have rescued her," said the young soldier, in a firm but respectful voice, " from gross op- pression and imprisonment, no matter by what other names the priesthood may gloss it over ; I have brought her to ycur camp, generally Montgomery, to place her under your protec- tion, until, as I have already informed you, she can join her friends in Quebec ; for I am suffi- ciently conscious of the impropriety of being longer her protector. " " You are iiideed wonderfully discreet," re- marked the general, with humour, " to deem a young cavalier of some twenty-one years, with a tolerable face and figure, to say no more, an indifferent duenna for a wild runaway nun. Well, I suppose I must give an audience to this Delilah, and I will f<»thwith consign her to the eai'e of my good lady, who is not far behind.. w 1! I 3-' i 280 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. Cupid defend me ! if she be as lovely as you have described her to me, I mistrust my worthy dame will be jealous of my protectorship. But favour me with a sight of this fair vestal, under whose auspices you have entered the army." Returning the playful irony of his general With a smile and blush, he left the tent, and in a few seconds returned with the novice, still disguised as a priest. " What, ho ! another monk ? "We shall have our camp converted into a holy brotherhood, and go to battle by sound of mass instead of fife and drum. Ha ! another masquerade ? Verily, young gallant, you are bringing back the days of romance, when knight and lady went mumming on adventure through the land. • But if ever angel were embodied, one has de- scended into my tent this night," he exclaimed, as Eugenie, at the solicitation of the young sol- dier, dropped her disguise, at the same time partly unveiling her face, and displayed features, the brilliant and striking cast of which must have impressed the most indifferent beholder. — ** Pardon a soldier's rudeness oi speech, lady," QUEBEC AND NEW YORK, 281 he said, gracefully, taking her hand, and pressing it to his lips with that courtly and profound re- spect which characterized the formal gentlemen of the day, " I know your story. If a convent's walls could have held out to you any charms, or if your tone of mind and disposition had fit- ted you for a monastic life, then perhaps it would have been best that you should have re- mained with your spiritual guardians. Nay, dear young lady, I do not censure you ; I am merely expressing an opinion, unimportant how- ever to my purpose. From this moment look on me as your paternal guardian : in the morn- ing I will send you, with a suitable escort, to Trois Rivieres, to the hospitable mansion of a friend to our cause, colonel Olney, who will place you with your friends the earliest oppor- tunity ; there also you will meet Mrs. Montgo- mery, in whom you will find a ladj'" as amiable and dignified as she is lovely ; I will drop a note to her by you ; in a few hours after leaving the camp you will be with her : do not hesitate to embrace my offer, Miss De lisle, it is made in affection and good will. For you to remain .■5 1 ^8^ QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. longer with my young knight here, will be, you are doubtless aware," he continued, smiling, ** in some degree indecorous, according to the notions of our provincial maidens." Although affected by the kind manner and friendly words of the dignified chief, the lovely novice, from time to time while he was speak- ing, cast timid and troubled glances towards her late travelling companion. He interpreted her looks, and drawing near, took her hand, and said softly — " Now, dearest Eugenie, preserve that noble fortitude which has so repeatedly challenged my admiration. Accept the kind invitation of general Montgomery, and take shelter beneath the hospitable roof of colonel Olney ; if you will allow me to do so, I will ac- company you part of the way : your own heart must tell you," he added, still more tenderly, ** that I would accompany you quite to Trois Rivieres — nay, never leave you ; but duty to my country, honour, every thing dear to a man and a soldier, bid me tear myself away. Tell me that you will comply with general Montgomery's QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 2S3 request, and you will make me happier than T can express." Eugenie listened in silence, and when he ceased, in the abandonment of the moment, overwhelmed by a vivid sense of her destitution and loneliness, heedless of the presence of a stranger, and forgetful of all else but the pro- posal which was to separate her from one who so entirely possessed her heart, she flung herself weeping upon his shoulder. The impassioned lover imprinted a kiss upon her forehead as he supported her form ; the touch of his bold lip electrified her, and restored her at once to self-possession. Hastily disen- gaging herself, covered with confusion, from the arm which half encircled her waist, though so lightly that she scarcely felt that it sustained her, she said softly — " Any thing, Edward ; your honour is dearer to me than your love — go where it calls you ; think not of me ; do your duty on the field of battle, while I liy to the altar to pray for you. Sir," she added, turning to general Montgomery, who had beheld this little scene between the youthful pair with ^84 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. mingled emotions of suspicion, as he marked the passionate glances, dangerous smile, and sooth- ing words of the young man, of pity, while he surveyed the lovely form of the confiding girl, as, true to her sex, in total recklessness of all else but her woman's love, she threw herself upon his bosom, " sir, I will accept your gene- rous offer of protection, and intrude upon the kindness of your friend, until Heaven sends me better fortunes." " Then, my sweet child," he said, in his usual amiable and cordial manner, *' you are from this moment my daughter. Wilt yield me a daughter's obedience ?" ** Willingly, my kind parent," she replied, ingenuously extending her hand. " But you will promise I shall soon see my brother ?" she asked, with a faint return of her usual archness, glancing as she spoke towards the young sol- dier. " That I promise. Now, my child, you are fatigued - this is a somewhat rude couch for thy tender limbs to press, but sound sleep will make that shaggy bear skin a pillow of down : for this QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 285 night I resign my tent to you. As for you, young sir, I shall be honoured by your com- pany while I visit the chain of sentinels. Hor- ton," he said, as he passed the sentinel, who was walking backward and forward before the tent, the barrel of his musket gleaming in the moonlight, ** see that you admit no one into my tent during my absence, and that you do not enter yourself, under any circumstances." The two gentlemen walked some distance through the camp in silence. After a few mi- nutes' progress, they came to an open area be- yond the crowd of tents, when the chief, with a grave manner and in an impressive tone, said — " This romance of yours, young gentleman, if I may judge from the scene I have just beheld, is likely to be rather serious, if it has not been so already. Pardon me, but young men are easily led astray, let honour call them back ever so loudly. This lovely child — for I have seldom before seen so much beauty united with so much childlike innocence — addressed you once as brother; am I to understand that such was the relationship you assumed in your wild journey. '> 386 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. on which both Mars and Venus appear to have smiled ?" ** It was, general Montgomery," he replied, in a tone of impatience. " Forgive me, my dear friend, if I ask if the relationship was sacredly regarded by you ?" " Upon my honour, yes ! saving that love has been busy with both our hearts, she is and has been only my sister." His reply was delivered in a firm and frank voice, and with such natural warmth of feeling and honest sincerity, that his companion's sus- picions were at once removed. " 'Tis a great escape ; I did not think your youth proof against such odds as you have so happily encountered : well, if there be true love here, true love was never marred by an Irish- man. After the wars, my brave youth, we will take our laurels to my farm at Rhinebeck, I to share them with my lady love, maugre that Hymen hath bound us some half-dozen years or so, and you to cast them at the feet of the lovely Eugenie ; so now let us for awhile dis- miss the ladies, and take a sterner theme. QUEBEC AND MEW YORK. 287 'Twas the ancient Goths, was it not, who for- bade their young men to marry until they were twenty-one, or had signalized themselves in bat- tle ; but we will be neither Goths or Vandals with you. You lack at the very least two years of that hymenial age ; yet fight by my side in the next battle, which will win or lose for us this fair province, and then all the graces aid you in your suit at love's court 1" The two officers, after going the rounds of the silent and well-guarded camp, within which a thousand men wt^re buried in as deep sleep as if their heads lay beneath their own roofs, re- turned to the tent they had left. " I hear the breathing of our lovely guest within, soft as that of an infant," said the gene- ral. " It is thus innocence only sleeps. Morn- ing approaches, my young cavalier, and you may keep watch and ward, as becomes a new- made knight, beside this temple ; but enter it not, on thy knightly honour ; or if, as I am in- clined to think, sleep be more welcome to a traveller than watching a maiden's pillow, you will find within this adjoining tent furs to form '1 \^ N^ 288 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. f a couch. I will lie down in Horton's quarters, for in two hours we must be on our march." He threw himself upon the floor of the pri- vates' tent, beside half-a-dozen soldiers heavily sleeping, with their muskets stacked in the cen- tre, and was soon asleep. The lover, protect- ing his person from the snow by an ample fur robe which the general had thrown to him, also laid down, but not to sleep. By one of those accidents which strangely favours lovers, his buf- falo's hide had been placed just without the can- vass curtain forming the tent, and so near it, that as he placed his head close to the envious divi- sion, he could distinctly hear the gentle suspira- tions of the sleeper within. Reclining on his arm, with his face turned towards the tent, he lay wrapped in a dreamy enchantment, his ear receiving the soft modulations of her breathing, till at length sleep stole upon his senses. He did not awake until roused by the sudden roll of drums and the piercing cry of fifes, as the drummers beat the cheerful reveille to stir the soldiers from their short repose, preparatory to re- suming with the coming dawn their rapid march. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 289 [uarters, rch." the pri- heavily the cen- protect- mple fur dm, also of those , his buf- the can- r it, that ous divi- i suspira- g on his tent, he t, his ear reathing, ses. He dden roll 58, as the ) stir the ;ory to re- id march. ; ■ . CHAP. XIV. r . ^^ The Parting, The first emotion of the young officer, on springing to his feet and beholding the warlike stir around him, was such as naturally would have arisen in the breast of an ambitious and daring young man, on finding himself, after so long subduing his native ardour of spirit beneath the assumed gravity of a monk, in the midst of a camp, himself a soldier. He involuntarily carried his hand to his sword-hilt, as these stir- ring sounds of war struck his ears, and his eyes sparkled with pride and pleasure. With these feelings were mingled, however, emotions of sad- ness, as he thought of his separation from Eugenie. His brow grew melancholy at the reflection, and his whole manner became at once depressed. VOL. I. g 'I W 1 II 111 290 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. (( How now, my young sir ?" said the general, advancing and taking his hand ; " you look as if you were sighing for your monk's garb again. Your outward man showed the priest last night, while your look was martial enough ; and now your face would canonize you. Well, 'tis sad, this parting of lovers, no doubt, and the briefer the better for both methinks. But if you choose to prolong the melancholy bliss, why, I suppose I must give you command of the escort for an hour's march. You will then resign to Hors- ford. I cannot well spare for a longer time one who will be my most efficient aid-de-camp. Old Horsford, my stout Serjeant, who, like John Rogers, has a wife and nine small children, which are somewhere about Tappan Zee, will be a safe and trusty escort till my good lady re- lieves him of liis charge. You may rest secure, and not fear a rival in him : he thinks more of his old dame — about whom, if you give ear, and, faith ! if you don't give ear, he will wind you long stories — than of the prettiest lass for whom youthful knight ever put lance in rest. But we OV SC AND NEW YORK. 291 must mount ; I see the columns are marching out of camp." " How large a detachment have you given this immaculate Serjeant, general ?" " Twelve men ; and Horsford is worth five more ; as many as I can spare on this duty, but enough to awe any parties of the country-people they may fall in with. Here now comes the champion of your lady-love, booted and spurred. Well, Serjeant Horsford," he continued, address- ing a stout-built, hale, and hearty-looking old man of some sixty winters, which had freely frosted his bushy hair, rnd with a good-natured, bluff physiognomy, lighted by a twinkling blue eye, " are your men ready ?" " All ready, general," replied the Serjeant, paying the military salute ; " every man stands with his hand on the bridle, prepared to mount at the word." " They shall not wait long for it. Eugenie, my daughter," he said, approaching the door of his tent, " have you yet unsealed those bright eyes, that have done so much mischief, and are 5 ''I I .1(1 J T \ li I: h il 1 1. ; i 292 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. likely to do more ? Horsford, man," he added with natural humour, speaking aside to the stout Serjeant, " you will need a treble breastplate, and the vision of your wife and children multi- plied before those round eyes of yours full thirtyfold at least, to keep your heart true to your dame, when once you put eyes on your charge." The old sergeant shrugged his soldiers, wink- ed, and twisted his mouth to one side by way of reply. At the same moment the curtain of the tent was drawn aside, and the lovely guest of general Montgomery was preparing to step forth, when, meeting the stare of old Horsford, and seeing the general and her lover, she drop- ped the screen and shrunk back into the tent. The latter, however, sprung forward and arrest- ed her hand as she was releasing her hold on the curtain, and said, earnestly, yet with all a lover's tenderness — " Nay, dearest Eugenie, there are none you need shrink from, unless," he added, in a low voice, which alone met her ear, " you would fly from me." As he spoke, he raised the canvass and sought her eyes by QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 293 the faint light of the dawn. They expressed mingled ajffection and reproof. Casting back a glance, half apologetic, half pleading, towards his superior oflficer, he dropped the curtain of the tent and was alone with Eugenie. Folding her in his arms, he pressed her to his heart in a lingering embrace. They both felt they were taking a long, perhaps a last farewell of each other. Neither spoke, except with their eyes, which were full of the strong language of the heart ; his, burning with the dark fire of his ar- dent feelings ; hers, soft, lambent, and full of tenderness. It would seem that lovers can see in one ano- ther's eyes what is not so visible to the organs of ordinary mortals, and that glances interchang- ed are of more efllcacy than words ; such at least would be the inference drawn from the parting interview of Edward and Eugenie. At an hour when it would be very naturally sup- posed that they must have had a great deal to say, they stood gazing into each other's eyes, instead of making good use of their time by making good use of their tongues. I' lil flf 294* QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. For several moments they lingered in this lover-like oblivion, their looks, as the roman- cers say, speaking volumes, when their inter- view was interrupted by the sudden roll of a dozen drums, the shrill music of a score of fifes, the loud blast of a bugle close without the tent, and the voice of general Montgomery giving several military orders. The next mo- ment he lifted the curtain and entered the tent. — " Come, my Petrarch and Laura, we are all in motion ; your canvass bower, fair Eugenie, must share the fate of war, and be stowed in the baggage-waggon, though I have a mind to send it to Rhinebeck, pitch it in my little gar- den, and dedicate it as a temple to Dan Cupid, It shall hereafter be put to no meaner use than Beauty's boudoir. Suppose, for the present, I entrust it to your knight for his especial bene- fit while in the army, and leave its future con- secration to his loyalty. Now, Miss De Lisle,' he added, affectionately taking her hand, " I shall regard you as my own daughter, whose happiness and interest, as such, will be very dear to me. This evening you will be at the QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 295 residence of colonel Olney, where you will meet with Mrs. Montgomery, in whom you will find both a mother and friend. Here is your escort, sergeant Horsford ; he is a husband and a fa- ther ; I intrust you to him with confidence in his care and attention. He already has his instruc- tions. Now, my dear child, God bless you !" Affectionately embracing her as he spoke, the excellent and noble-hearted man took his leave, mounted his horse, which a dragoon had been holding at the door of the tent, and wav- ing his hand to his new aid-de-camp, said — " In three hours I shall be happy to learn from your lips, that my lovely protege is full ten miles on her way to Trois Rivieres." Then courteously kissing his ungloved hand to Eugenie, he gal- loped off, surrounded by several officers, to join his forces, which were already filing through the forest towards the main road. " Sergeant, we are ready to ride," said t.he young aid. " Bring up that bay pony," cried Horsford, to one of his command ; " here, now, my young lady, be as genteel an animal as the queen i 296 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. would wish to ride — not the queen that is, but that was, being, as we don't acknowledge king nor queen, till they give us the rights we are fighting for," added the sergeant, correcting his habitual colonial phrase, to suit his new and yet awkward American politics. '* To be sure it carries no side-saddle, seeing Congress don't supply the camp with such womanish gear ; but there is a good bearskin strapped over a troop- er's saddle, with the two ears left sticking straight up to hold on by, which may and may not answer, all depending whether you be a good horse-woman or be not. The pony too, be een- a-most as easy as a skif sailin' on the Hudson in a calm. You could carry a mug full of cyder all the way to Montreal on the crupper and not spill a drop ; but if you don't like the bearskin, why I can rig a pillion behind my own saddle, and you can ride on there, as wife and my oldest gal has done to church many a Sunday." " I think, my worthy soldier," said Eugenie, smiling at this proposition, " I shall prefer the pony. So, if you will assist me to my saddle, I will not long hinder your journey." *% QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 297 ** That will I, for I'd like to be back to the army before they are like to have a brush with the enemy," said the rough soldier, extending his arms as if he was about to lift a child from the ground. " No, no, good Hosmer, not so," said the young lady, laughing and retreating. " Horsford, young miss, not Hosmer." ** Then, worthy Horsford, I should prefer the aid of this camp-stool." " Or my arm rather, Eugenie," said Edward, who had been busily arranging, for the greater comfort and security of the rider, the rude sad- dle destined for Eugenie, advancing and taking her hand as he spoke. Gracefully bending, as he received a smiling permission, he received her tiny foot in his right palm. Lightly pressing hier hand upon his shoulder, she was elevated to the saddle with ease, and with much less ex- ertion than even the rough strength of Sergeant Horsford would have demanded. " By my honour, but that was cleverly done," said the sergeant, when he beheld her seated o 3 I' 'I 298 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK* firmly in the saddle ; " these youths have the advantage of gray hairs. I must lam my eldest da'ter to mount Biddy in this shorthand fashion. Now, young gentleman, or rather major," he added, respectfully raising his hand to his cap, " we will up and ride, if it be your pleasure." The young officer mounted a fiery and beau- tifully-formed animal, presented to him by Gene- ral Montgomery, and took his station by the bridle of his fair companion. Leaving the ground so lately teeming with life, but now silent and deserted, they turned into the main road, where the detachment or escort which was to attend Eugenie was drawn up, the men sitting immoveably on their horses, as if forming a group of equestrian statues. " Forward ! Trot I" cried the sergeant, as he rode to the head of his troop, after placing his charge in the centre. Obeying the command, with a simultaneous movement, the squadron of horse moved forward at a round trot, and soon left the place of encampment far behind. During the ride, the lovers, as doubtless they should now be denominated, had uninterrupted QUEBEC AND NEW YOKK. 299 e the eldest shion. •," he s cap, ire." beau- Grene- y the r the now main h was itting group as he ig his nand, •on of soon I they upted opportunities for communication, not only with their eyes, but their tongues, the afterguard or rear division of the escort, keeping, by the com- mand of the young officer, some paces in their rear, " lest," he said, " their heavy tramp, and the clattering and ringing of their accoutrements, should alarm the spirited pony upon which the young lady was mounted, and endanger her safety ;" while, by riding very slowly, he ma- naged to keep the van some distance in advance. The conversation of lovers is, proverbially, only interesting to the parties themselves ; and as that of ours cannot challenge an exception, it will not, if detailed, contribute materially to the entertainment of the reader. We shall, therefore, leave our fair reader, if, perchance, these ephemeral pages are honoured by the glances of bright eyes or graced by the fingers of beauty, to imagine all the sweet phrases, the endearing epithets, the tender looks, the love- ful eyes, now cast down and tearful, now spark- ling with hope ; the soft hand-pressure, the agi- tated bosom, the heavy sighs, and all the other concomitants that go to make up a genuine tete- .li 300 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. d-tSte between a young lover and his mistress on the eve of separation. The separation of Edward and Eugenie was rendered still more painful, as it was to be for an indefinite time, as one of them was about to mingle in the dan- gers of the battle-field, and the other to seek a distant home among strangers. " There is Champlain, major," said Sergeant Horsford, reining up and falling alongside of them, and interrupting a very interesting scene; ** when we arrive there we shall have marched good fifteen miles before breaking fast." " Fifteen miles !" repeated the officer, with surprise, looking in the direction of the hamlet, which lay close to the water's edge, not half a mile before them ; " so far already ! I thought we had not come a third of the distance." The old man looked quizzically as he glanced at the youthful pair, but respectfully replied — " There's been a time, major, when I've thought the Monday morning cock had crowed at mid- night. These lasses play the devil with old Forelock's sandglass." "I must, then, return, Horsford. Ride by QUEBEC AND NEW VORK. 301 this lady's bridle, and leave it not during your march." Then drawing iic-ar Eugenie, he said, despondingly — " Here we must part, sweet Eu- genie ; when next we meet, may it be to part no more." He took her hand as he spoke, and, as if reluc- tant to resign it, continued to ride by her side till the escort entered the village, when, hastily pressing it to his lips, he cried, " God bless you ! God bless you !" Turning his horse's head, he dashed his spurs into his flanks, and, followed by two dragoons as a body-guard in his progress through a hos- tile country, he rode rapidly back in the oppo- site direction ; while Eugenie, hastily veiling her face to conceal her emotion, rode forward with a heavy heart, feelings alone and desolate in the world. ; From the moment Eugenie met the eyes of the youthful monk in the oratory of the convent St. Therese, until they parted in the village of Champlain, love, however disguised by the thou- sand little artifices by which maidens try to con- ceal its existence, as deep, pure, and devoted 302 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. love as woman is capable of feeling, possessed her heart. The depth and purity of her attach- ment insensibly produced a corresponding senti- ment in the breast of the young soldier, till at length an affaire du caeuVt as he termed it, be- gun in the spirit of gallantry and a romantic disposition, undeniably assumed the elevated and hallowed character of love, and he yielded his heart to the spell with which he had dared to trifle. Neither had yet spoken of love, yet both felt a conviction that they loved and were beloved with an ardour of affection allied to devotion. The young aid-de-camp dashed along the road, on his return to the army, at a rate that kept his attendants busily employed in keeping up with him with their less active horses. He flew over hill and through hollow like a lover who is hastening to meet, rather than one who has just parted from, his mistress. Some epicurean tra- veller, who lived in those days when four-wheeled carriages were drawn by quadrupeds, has ob- served and left on record, that the most delight- ful of all sensations is that which is experieiiced QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 303 when one is whirled over a turnpike-road in a mail-coach. Doubtless this worthy gentleman laboured under the infliction of the gout, rheu- matism, or some one of the other ills that render cavaliers who have attained to a certain period of life peculiarly uncomfortable, and especially unfitted for equestrian exploits, otherwise he would have substituted in that age a fleet horse for that aldermanic mode of locomotion, a mail- coach ; in the present day he would have re- joiced in a railroad car. Alas ! that he should have been born a generation too soon to have enjoyed the quintessence of his sensation of delight ! The deep gloom weighing upon the heart of the young horseman gradually lightened, and his spirit rode with the rapid motion of the blooded animal he rode ; and partaking of the full excitement and exhiliration of his situation, he soon felt a joyousness and elasticity of spirits with which the vanity of Eugenie would have been little flattered ; for genuine lovers estimate the degree of each other's affection, especially during an absence, by the length of visage they 304 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. exhibit, and the depth and quantity of their sighs. There is a story told of a sentimental maiden, who preserved her tears in a crystal lachrymatory during her lover's absence over sea, and on his return from a year's voyage, dis- played it, with great exultation, nearly filled. The lover, in defence, and as we are told, to prove the equal sincerity of his love, presented her with a demijohn, which, at the request of some virtuoso, he had filled from the Lake As- phaltites ; but this digression is somewhat irre- levant to our purpose ; lovers, and not the tears which measure their love, being the subject in which our pen is enlisted. It was noon when the horseman, moving at a slower pace than the agitation of his feelings had hitherto allowed him to adopt, arrived at the summit of a ridge, over which the road passed, and in the valley beyond beheld the army he was hastening to join. The St. Law- rence was in sight on his right, its bosom re- lieved here and there by a merchant-ship seek- ing the ocean ; small vessels, in greater numbers, sailing in different directions, and numerous QUEBEC 4ND NEW YORK. 305 ^seniea lest of <.e As- t irre- e tears ject in ing at jelings *^ed at ; road d the Law- m re- seek- nbers, lerous • batteaux plying among the fields of ice, which, borne seaward by the strong current, momently threatened to crush them, with their adventur- ous boatmen, to atoms. More than a league distant, their long black lines relieved against the snow, his eyes followed the army, as in their march they wound through the valley, diminish- ed by the distance to mere pigmies, and render- ed still more insignificant by that contrast which always affects man or his works, when surround- ed by the stupendous works of God. The young man watched them until, to his imagination, they appeared to be only a horde of insects. Curling his lip contemptuously, as this, idea became more impressive, he ironically mused — " There crawl human pride and power! Long lines of insects moving, as I have seen their prototypes, to battle. To the eye, where is the distinction ? To the reason, where ? Which the immortal ? The emmet performs its allotted duty, and each unit in yonder black mass does no more. Both alike spring from the earth and return to it. One appears no more useful than the other ; its pursuits neither more 306 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. dignified nor more earnest. Both levy armies and join battle : each army slays its thousands with a great noise, and the conqueror emmet, or conqueror man, is alike cruel to his victims. It may be that the nobler being will stand forth in the next world in his destined superior- ity ; but here, man is as the brutes that perish. I too have a part to perform in this silly pageant of life, and must masquerade like my fellow emmets. So, forward, and let me fling myself into the vortex that awaits me." Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped down the hill, and soon arrived at the main body of the forces, and join- ed the staff of general Montgomery. " Welcome, my knight-errant !" said the ge- neral, as the young officer reined up his reeking horse by his side ; " if you are as zealous in war as you have proved in love, you will yet win a name men will pronounce with pride. How left you our lovely protege ?" " Well, general," replied the aid-de-camp, compelling his still-spirited horse to move along at the moderate gait preserved by the well-train- ed charger on which the chief was mounted. QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. 307 " What grove or fountain between this and Trois Rivieres has been made sacred by beholding the parting scene between Hector and Androma- che this morning ?" asked the general, pointedly. *' No other groves than the swords and plumes of half a score of dragoons ; no other fountain than a few dropping crystals." " Ha! art given to the melting mood, my Paris?" " They were not the tears of Paris, but of Helen." " 'Tis fortunate," said the general, laughing, " that the walls of Quebec do not contain your Helen, lest it should prove a second Troy. I assure you, I have no ambition to become a mo- dern Achilles ; but a truce to this bantering, my dear Burton. Allow me, captain M'Pher- son," he added, turning to an officer near him, " to make you acquainted with my friend and aid, major Burton." The two officers bowed, and shortly after, falling a little in the rear of their superior, en- tered into conversation. That night the small army of invaders en- 308 QUEBEC AND NEW YORK. camped a few miles above Quebec, where gene- ral Montgomery received fresh advices from the second division of such a nature that he was in- duced to await its arrival. The seventh day after the departure of his messenger, whose ad- ventures we have followed, colonel Arnold ar- rived at Point Levi, opposite Quebec. Disap- pointed by the activity of sir Guy Carleton and colonel M'Lean, in surprising the place, he crossed the St. Lawrence, after a perilous pas- sage, and joined general Montgomery at his en- campment at Aux Trembles, twenty miles above Quebec. From this point the combined forces, now constituting a formidable army, directly marched to lay siege to that important citadel, the possession of which was the key to both Canadas. ''■ . END 01' VOL. I. Printed by Darling & Son, Leadenhall Street, London. B gene- om the was in- th day ose ad- old ar- Disap- ton and ice, he LIS pas- his en- s above forces, iirectly citadel, o both ion.