nor. His own soul was stirred to the depths by indignation and
sorrow. It seemed to him the crowning disgrace in a disgraceful
flight. Ramesay had sought speech with the Marquis a few hours
before his death, but could obtain no advice from him. He had done
with worldly things, and could only wish well to those who were
left behind. It was a desperate state of affairs, and all the town
knew it.

So great was the confusion that no workman could be found to make a
coffin for the body of the dead General. The old servant of the
Ursulines, faithful to the last, went hither and thither and
collected a few planks and nails, and the midshipmen and Colin
assisted her to nail together a rude coffin in which the body was
presently laid. It must be buried that same evening, for none knew
from hour to hour what was in store for the city. But no pomp or
circumstance could attend the funeral; and indeed no one could be
found to dig a grave.

Yet a fitting grave was found in the chapel of the Ursuline
convent, now little more than a ruin. An exploding shell had made a
deep cavity in the floor not far from the altar, and this hollow
was soon shaped into the similitude of a grave.

No bells tolled or cannon fired as the mournful procession filed
through the streets; yet it did not lack a certain sombre dignity.
The Bishop and the Abbe headed it, with a few priests from the
Cathedral in attendance. Ramesay was there with his officers, and
Madame Drucour, with Colin and Corinne, the three midshipmen (who
no longer feared to show themselves), and the old servant, brought
up the rear. As the cortege passed through the streets, numbers of
citizens fell in behind, together with women and children, weeping
for one whose name was dear, and who they all averred would have
saved their city had he lived.

Torches were lit before the procession filed into the ruined
church, and sobs mingled with the chants that were rehearsed over
the grave.

"Alas, alas!" sobbed the women; "we have buried our hopes in that
grave. We have lost our General; we shall lose our city, and all
Canada will follow."

"It is no wonder they feel so," said the Abbe to his sister that
night; "we are abandoned by the army that might have saved us. We
have scarce provision to last a week, even on half rations--so I
heard today--and all the merchants and townspeople are for
immediate capitulation. It is possible that when our army finds
itself at Jacques Cartier, thirty