ry was
dead. Arnold was wounded. One half of the army was captured. The broken
remnant shrunk back to its quarters amid the snowbanks of the St Foye
road. Had Carleton been a great general he could have annihilated it at
one blow.

There never dawned a gloomier day over an army than the 1st of January,
1776, over the American forces before Quebec. All their chances were
gone, and they had to confront a menacing future. Still gloomier was the
fate of the four hundred brave fellows who were cooped up in the
Seminary. These prisoners were well treated by the British, but the loss
of liberty was a privation for which no kind offices could compensate.
Among them, of course, was Cary Singleton, who was not only a prisoner
but grievously wounded.

END OF BOOK THIRD.

BOOK IV. AFTER THE STORM.

I.

THE CONFESSIONAL.

It was the eve of the New Year. The snow-storm continued in unabated
violence, and the weather was so gray that the lines of earth and sky
were blended and utterly undistinguishable. A little after the hour of
noon, Zulma Sarpy knelt in the little church of Pointe-aux-Trembles.
Beside her there were only a few worshippers--some old men mumbling
their rosaries, and some women crouched on their heels before the
shrine. A solitary lamp hung from a silver chain in the sanctuary,
casting a feeble ray amid the premature gloom. An awful silence reigned
throughout the aisles. Opposite the place where Zulma was stationed
stood a square box through the bars of which faintly gleamed the white
surplice of the parish priest, who sat there awaiting the confessions of
his flock. The New Year is the chief of festal days among the French,
and it is always ushered in by exercises of devotion. After going
through all the needful preparation, Zulma rose from her seat and
approached the dread confessional. Her demeanour was full of gravity, a
pallor overspread her beautiful features, her eyes were cast down, her
hands joined upon her breast. The influence of prayer and of silent
communion with God could never be more perceptible. She looked like a
totally distinct being from the one whom we have known in the preceding
pages. Zulma moved slowly, and when she reached the door of the
confessional, she paused a moment. But it was not through hesitation.
She was recollecting herself for a supreme act of religion. At length
she disappeared behind the long green curtain, knelt on the narrow stool
within, and through the