f pledges or protestations, without the
necessity of recalling the past, or facing the future, she would have
been content, nor asked for anything beyond. This dream of a tranquil
passivity was a fatal symptom of completely broken energies and
proximate decay. But even this dream had to be dispelled. An hour had
gone by and darkness had filled the room, an admonition to Cary that he
must forthwith return to camp. When he informed the invalid of this she
moaned piteously, and it was minutes before he could soothe her. Indeed
she was not reconciled until he promised that he would be with her again
as soon and as often as he could tear himself away from his military
duties. Before leaving he leaned over her, and, while pressing her hand,
imprinted a reverent kiss upon her forehead. He did it naturally, and as
if by duty. She received the token without surprise, as if she expected
it. It was the seal of love.

The caleche was waiting at the door, and Cary mounted it, after the
exchange of only a few words with M. Belmont and Zulma. He was
preoccupied and almost sullen. Batoche took a seat beside him and they
drove away into the darkness. For nearly two-thirds of the route not a
syllable passed between the two. The stars came out one by one like
laughing nymphs, the moon sailed up jauntily, the low sounds of the
night were heard on every side. Batoche was too shrewd to speak, but his
eyes glared as he conducted the horse. His companion was buried in his
thoughts. Finally the freshening breeze showed that they were
approaching the broad St. Lawrence, a faint illumination floated over
Quebec from its hundred lights, and the camp-fires of the Continental
army broke out here and there in the distance. They reached a rough part
of the road where the horse was put on the walk.

"Batoche," said Cary hoarsely.

"Yes, Captain," was the calm reply.

"The end is at hand."

"Alas! sir."

"You see those fires yonder? They will soon be extinguished. The English
fleet is coming with reinforcements, and we cannot withstand them. We
shall have to flee. But before we go, I trust we shall fight, and if we
fight, I hope I shall be killed. I am sick of disappointment and defeat.
I want to die."

These words were spoken in such a harrowing way, that for once, Batoche
was thrown off his guard, and could answer nothing--not a word of
argument, not an expression of comfort. Whipping his horse to his utmost
speed, he muttered grimly:--

"Y